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POEM  S, 


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WILLIAM   COWPERp,   ESQ 

TOGETHER   WITH   HIS     * 

POSTHUMOUS  POETRY, 


A  SKETCH  OF  HIS  LIFE 
BY  JOHN  JOHNSOl^  LL.   D, 


THREE   VOLUMES   IN    ONE. 


NEW  EDITION. 

BOSTGlSr: 

PHILLIPS,    SAM^j^AND    COMPANY. 

NEW  Yoi^^^K.  DERBY. 


1  Jo  :*<r' 


^A  \    (^ 


'lA^¥^ 


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fR33iOM:iiSf.M'M'^ 


CONTENTS 


\ 


THE  FIRST  VOLUME. 


•Tl'able  Talk, 

Progress  of  Errour, 

Truth, 

Expostulation, 

Hope, 

Qiarity, 

Conversation, 

Retirement, 


w  <rhe  Yearly  Distress,  or  Tithing  Time  at  Stock  in 
Essex,  -  -  -  . 

Sonnet  to  Henry  Cowper,  Esq. 
Lines  addressed  to  Dr.  Darwin, 
•*»On  Mrs.  Montagu's  Feather-Hangings,  .^ 
^■^rerses,  supposed  to  be  WKtteinTjy  Alexander 
Selkirk  during  his  abode  in  the  Island  of 
Juan  Fernandez,  -  -  - 

On  the  promotion  of  Edward  Thurlow,  Esq.  to 

the  Chancellorship  of  England, 
Ode  to  Peac^  ... 

\  ^    Human  Frailty, 
^'    T|je  Modern  Patriot, 

On  observing  some  names  of  little  Note  recorded 

in  the  Biographia  Britannica, 
leport  of  an  admdged  Case,  not  to  be  found  in 

any  of  the  Books, 
On  the  Burning  of  Lord  Mansfield's  Library, 
On  the  Same,  ... 

The  Love  of  the  Worlii^^Qved, 


11' 

32 

49 

65 

85 

106^ 
124 
149 

7. 

J  71 
174 
175 
176 


.  178' 

-  180 

-  181 
182 

-  183 

-  184 


u 


**l*^Oji  the  death  of  Lady, 
••^"he  Rose, 

-c-^Ihe  Doves, 
V-'  A  Fable, 


orton's  Bulfinch,if 


4  CONTENTS. 

A.  Comparison, 

Another,  addfessed  to  a  young  Lady, 
The  Poet's  New  Year's  Gift, 
Ode  to  Apollo,         -  - 

Pairing  Time  anticipated,  a  Fable, 
The  Dog  and  the  Water  Lily,  -       'r 

*Thc  Poet,  tiff  Oyster,  and  the  Sensitivo  Plant, 
The  Shrubbery,        -  -  -  - 

The  Wint*  Nosegay,         -  -  - 

Mutual  Fof>earance  nece^ary  to  the  happiness 

of  the  ^Married  State,    -  -  - 

^The  Negro's  Complaint,      -  -  -         r^\ 

**  Pity  for  p0or  Africans,         -  •  ^" 

The  Morning  Dream, 
:7  'J>»irtie  Nightingale  and  Glow-worm,  ^ 

^  On  a  Goldfinch  starved  to  death  in  his  Cage, 
The  Pine  Apple  and  the  Bee, 
Horace,  Book  IL  Ode  X.     - 
A  reflection  on  the  foregoing  Ode, 
The  Lily  and  the  Rose,       -  -  - 

Idem,  Latine  Redditum,     -  -  - 

^-^^The  Poplar  Field,    -  -  -  - 

Idem,  Latine  Redditum,     -  -  - 

Votum,  -        - 

Translations  from  Vincent  Bourne, 
Cicindela,    -        -  -  -        .    - 

The  Glow-worm,  -  .    •       - 

Cornicula,    -        - 

The  Jackdaw,  .  -  - 

Ad  Grillum.    Anacreonticum,    - 
The  Cricket,        -  -  -    *      - 

Simile  agit  in  simile,       -  -  - 

The  Parrot,  -  -  -  - 

Translation  of  Prior's  Q^i^^fa^  Euphelia, 


195 
196 
ibid.  4 
197 

204 
205 


^f^SiX^e  History  of  John^ 


pistle  to  an  afflicted 
To  the  Rev.  W.  C.  Unwin, 


Ch^^id  E 
[  P^^l^nt  I 


Lady  \n  France, 


PREFACE 

TO 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME. 


When  an  Author,  by  appearing  in  print,  requesia 
an  audience  of  the  publick,  and  is  upon  the  point  of 
speaking  for  himself,  whoever  presumes  to  step  before 
him  with  a  preface,  and  to  say,  *'  Nay,  but  hear  me 
first,"  should  have  something  worthy  of  attention  to 
offer,  or  he  will  be  justly  deemed  officious  and  imper 
tinent.  The  judicious  reader  has,  probably  upon  other 
occasions,  been  beforehand  with  me  in  this  reflection : 
and  I  am  not  very  willing  it  should  now  be  applied  to 
me,  however  I  may  seem  to  expose  myself  to  the  dan 
ger  of  it.  But  the  thought  of  having  my  own  name 
perpetuate4  in  connexion  with  the  name  in  the  title 
page,  is  so  pleasing  and  flattering  to  the  feelings  of  my 
heart,  that  I  am  content  to  risk  something  for  the 
gratification. 

This  Preface  is  not  designed  to  commend  the  Poems 
to  which  it  is  prefixed.  My  testimony  would  be  in- 
sufficient for  those  who  are  not  qualified  to  judge  pro- 
perly for  themselves,  and  unnecessary  to  those  who 
are.  Besides,  the  reasons  which  render  it  improper 
and  unseemly  for  a  man  to  celebrate  his  own  perform- 
ances, or  those  of  his  nearest  relatives,  will  have  some 
1* 


6  PREFACE 

influence  in  suppressing  rvnch.  of  what  he  might  otheN 

wise  wish  to  say  in  favour  of  a  friend,  when  that  friend 

is  indeed  an  alter  idenij  and  excites  almost  the  same 

emotions  of  sensibility  and  affection  as  he  fee  -    for 

liimself. 

It  is  very  probable  that  these  Poems  may  come  into 
the  hands  of  some  persons,  in  whom  the  sight  of  the 
author's  name  will  awaken  a  recollection  of  incidents 
and  scenes,  which,  through  length  of  time,  they  had  al- 
most forgotten.  They  will  be  reminded  of  one,  who 
was  once  the  companioTi  of  their  chosen  hours,  and 
who  set  out  with  them  in  early  life  in  the  paths  which 
lead  to  literary  honours,  to  influence  and  affluence, 
with  equal  prospects  of  success.  But  he  was  suddenly 
and  powerfully  withdrawn  from  those  pursuits,  and  he 
left  them  without  regret ;  yet  not  till  he  had  sufficient 
opportunity  of  counting  the  cost  and  of  knowing  the 
value  of  what  he  gave  up.  If  happiness  could  have 
been  found  in  classical  attainments,  in  an  elegant  taste, 
in  the  exertions  of  wit,  fancy,  and  genius,  and  in  the 
esteem  and  converse  of  such  persons  as  in  these  re- 
spects were  mo  t  congenial  with  himself,  he  would  have 
been  happy.  But  he  was  not — He  wondeted  (as  thou- 
sands in  a  similar  situation  still  do)  that  he  should  con-- 
tinue  dissatisfied,  with  all  the  means  apparently 
conducive  to  satisfaction  within  his  reach.  But  in  due 
time  the  cause  of  his  disappointment  was  discovered 
to  him  ;  he  had  lived  without  God  in  the  world  In  a 
memorable  hour  the  wisdom  which  is  from  above  visit- 
ed his  heart.  Then  he  felt  himself  a  Wanderer,  and 
then  he  found  a  guide.  Upon  this  change  of  views,  a 
change  of  plan  and  conduct  fallowed  of  course.  When 
ho  saw  the  buey  and  the  gay  world  in  its  true  light,  ha 


PREFACE.  7 

lefl  it  ifHtli  as  little  reluctance  as  a  prisoner,  ^hen  called 
lo  liberty,  kaves  his  dungeon.  Not  that  he  became  a 
Cynick  or  an  Ascetick — A  heart  filled  with  love  to  God 
will  assuredly  breathe  benevolence  to  men.  But  the 
turn  of  his  temper  inclining  him  to  rural  life,  he  in- 
dulged it,  and  the  Providence  of  God  evidently  prepar- 
ing his  way  and  marking  out  liis  retreat,  he  retired 
into  the  country.  By  these  steps  the  good  hand  of 
God,  unknown  to  me,  was  providing  for  me  one  of  the 
principal  blessings  of  my  life  ;  a  friend  and  a  counsellor, 
in  whose  company  for  almost  seven  years,  though 
we  were  seldom  seven  successive  waking  hours  sepa- 
rated, I  always  found  new  pleasure.  A  friend  who  was 
not  only  a  comfort  to  myself,  but  a  blessing  to  the  af- 
fectionate poor  people,  among  whom  I  then  lived. 

Some  time  after  inclination  had  thus  removed  him 
from  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  life,  he  was  still  more  se- 
cluded by  a  long  indisposition,  and  my  pleasure  was 
succeeded  by  a  proportionable  degree  of  anxiety  and 
concern.  But  a  hope  that  the  God  whom  he  served 
W'ould  support  him  under  his  affliction,  and  at  length 
vouchsafe  him  a  happy  deliverance,  never  forsook  me. 
The  desirable  crisis,  I  trust,  is  now  nearly  approaching. 
The  dawn,  the  presage  of  returning  day,  is  already  ar- 
rived. He  is  again  enabled  to  resume  his  pen,  and 
some  of  the  first  fruits  of  his  recovery  are  here  pre- 
sented to  the  publick.  In  his  principal  subjects,  the 
same  acumen,  which  distinguished  him  in  the  early 
period  of  life,  is  happily  employed  in  illustrating  and 
enforcing  the  truths  of  which  he  received  such  deep,  and 
unalterable  impressions  in  his  maturer  years.  His  sa- 
tire, if  it  may  be  called  so,  is  benevolent,  (like  the  ope* 
rations  of  the  skilful  and  humane  surgeon,  who  wounds 


8  PREFACE. 

only  to  heal,)  dictated  by  a  just  regard  for  the  honour 

of  God|  and  indignant  grief  excited  by  the  profligacy 

of  the  age,  and  a  tender  compassion  for  the  souls  of 

men. 

His  favourite  topicks  are  least  insisted  on  in  the 
piece  entitled  Table  Talk ;  which,  therefore,  with  re- 
gard to  the  prevailing  taste,  and  that  those  who  are  go- 
verned by  it  may  not  be  discouraged  at  the  very  thresh- 
old from  proceeding  further,  is  placed  first.  In  most 
of  the  large  Poems  which  follow,  his  leading  design  is 
more  explicitly  avowed  and  pursued.  He  aims  to  com- 
municate his  own  perceptions  of  the  truth,  beauty,  and 
influence  of  the  religion  of  the  Bible — A  religion  which 
however  discredited  by  the  misconduct  of  many  who 
have  not  renounced  the  Christian  name,  proves  itself, 
when  rightly  understood,  and  cordially  embraced,  to 
be  the  grand  desideratum,  which  alone  can  relieve  the 
mind  of  man  from  painful  and  xmavoidable  anxieties, 
inspire  it  with  stable  peace  and  solid  hope,  and  furnish 
those  motives  and  prospects,  which,  in  the  present 
state  of  things,  are  absolutely  necessary  to  produce  a 
conduct  worthy  of  a  rational  cieature,  distinguished  by 
a  vastness  of  capacity  which  no  assemblage  of  earthly 
good  can  satisfy,  and  by  a  principle  and  pre-intimation 
of  immortality. 

At  a  time  when  hypothesis  and  conjecture  in  philo- 
sophy are  so  justly  exploded,  and  little  is  considered  as 
deserving  the  name  of  knowledge  which  will  not 
stand  the  test  of  experiment,  the  very  use  of  the  term 
experimental,  in  religious  concernments,  is  by  too 
many  unhappily  rejected  with  disgust.  But  we  well 
know,  that  they  who  affect  to  despise  the  inward  teel- 
ings  which  religious  persons  speak  of,  and  to  treat 


PREFACE  9 

them  as  enthusiasm  and  folly,  have  inward  feelings  of 
their  own,  which,  though  they  would,  they  cannot  sup^ 
j^iesB.  We  have  been  too  long  in  the  secret  ourselves, 
to  account  the  proud,  the  ambitious,  or  the  voluptuous, 
happy.  We  must  lose  the  remembrance  of  what  we 
once  were,  before  we  can  believe  that  a  man  is  satis- 
fied with  himself,  merely  because  he  endeavours  to 
appear  so.  A  smile  upon  the  face  is  often  but  a  mask 
worn  occasionally  and  in  company,  to  prevent,  if  possi 
ble,  a  suspicion  of  what  at  the.  same  time  is  passing  in 
the  heart.  We  know  that  there  are  people  who  seldom 
smile  when  they  are  alone  ;  who,  therefore,  are  glad  to 
hide  themselves  in  a  throng  from  the  violence  of  their 
own  reflections ;  and  who,  while  by  their  looks  and 
language  they  wish  to  persuade  us  they  are  happy, 
would  be  glad  to  change  their  conditions  with  a  dog. 
But  in  defiance  of  all  their  efforts,  they  continue  to 
think,  forebode,  and  tremble.  This  we  know,  for  it 
has  been  our  own  state,  and  therefore  we  know  how 
to  commiserate  it  in  others.  From  this  state  the  Bible 
relieved  us.  When  we  were  led  to  read  it  with  atten- 
tion, we  found  ourselves  described-  We  learned  the 
causes  of  our  inquietude — We  were  directed  to  a  me- 
thod of  relief — we  tried,  and  we  were  not  disappointed. 

DEUS    NOBIS    H^C    OTIA    FECIT. 

We  are  now  certain,  that  the  gospel  of  Christ  is  the 
power  of  God  unto  salvation  to  every  one  that  believeth 
It  has  reconciled  us  to  God,  and  to  ourselves  ;  to  our. 
duty,  and  our  situation.  It  is  the  balm  and  cordial  of 
the  present  life,  and  a  sovereign  antidote  against  the 
fears  of  death. 

Sed  hactenus  hiec.    Some  smaller  pieces  upon  less 


10  PREFACE. 

important  subjects  close  the  volume.  Not  one  of  them 
I  believe  was  written  with  a  view  to  publication,  but  I 
was  unwilling  they  should  be  omitted. 

JOHN  NEWTON. 
Charles  Square,  Hoxton, 
FcDruaiy  18, 1782. 


TABLE  TALK. 


Si  te  forth  me<B  gravis  uret  sarcina  charicbi 
Mjictto Hor.  lib.  i.  Epist.  13. 

^.  You  told  me,  I  remember,  glory,  built 
On  selfish  principles,  is  shame  and  guilt ; 
The  deeds  that  men  admire  as  half  divine, 
Stark  naught,  because  corrupt  in  tkeir  design. 
Strange  doctrine  this  !   that  without  scruple  tears       5 
The  laurel  that  the  very  lig:htning  spares ; 
Brings  down  the  warriors  trophy  to  the  dust, 
And  eats  into  his  bloody  sword  like  rust. 

B.     I  grant,  that  men  continuing  what  they  are, 
Fierce,  avaricious,  proud,  there  must  be  war ;  10 

And  never  meant  the  rule  should  be  applied 
To  him  that  fights  with  justice  on  his  side. 

Let  laurels,  drench'd  in  pure  Parnassian  dews, 
Reward  his  mem'ry,  dear  to  ev'ry  muse,  "'"'^-' 
Who,  with  a  courage  of  unshaken  root,  15 

In  honour's  field  advancing  his  firm  foot. 
Plants  it  upon  the  line  that  Justice  draws, 
And  will  prevail,  or  perish  in  her  cause. 
*Tis  to  the  virtues  of  such  men,  man  owes 
His  portion  in  the  good  that  Heav'n  bestows.  20 

And  when  recording  History  displays 
Feats  of  renown,  though  wrought  in  ancient  dp.yS, 
Tells  of  a  few  stout  hearts,  that  fought  and  died 
Where  duty  plac'd  them — at  their  country's  side ; 
The  man,  that  is  not  mov'd  with  what  he  reads,        21 
That  takes  not  fire  at  their  heroick  deeds, 
Unworthy  of  the  blessings  of  the  brave, 
Is  base  in  kind,  and  born  to  be  a  shv: 


12  '         TABLE  TALK.    ^      V^ 

But  let  eternal  infamy  pursue 
The  wretch  to  naught  but  his  ambition  true,  30 

Who,  for  the  sake  of  filling  with  one  blast 
The  post  horns  of  all  Europe,  lays  her  waste 
Think  yourself  station'd  on  a  tow'ring  roci 
To  see  a  people  scatter'd  like  a  flock, 
Some  royal  mastiff  panting  at  their  heels,  35 

With  all  the  savage  thirst  a  tiger  feels : 
Then  vi3w  him  self-proclaim'd  in  a  gazette 
Chief  monster  that  has  plagued  the  nations  yet. 
The  globe  and  sceptre  in  such  hands  misplac'd, 
Those  ensigns  of  dominion,  how  disgraced  !  40 

The  glass  that  bids  man  mark  the  fleeting  hour, 
And  Death's  ownsithe  would  better  speak  his  pow'r. 
Then  grace  the  bony  phantom  in  their  stead 
With  the  king's  shoulderknot  and  gay  cockade  ; 
Clothe  the  twin  brethren  in  each  other's  dress,  45 

The  same  their  occupation  and  success. 

A.  'Tis  your  belief  the  world  was  made  for  man ; 
Kings  do  but  reason  on  the  self-same  plan : 
Maintaining  yours,  you  cannot  theirs  condemn, 

Who  thinlt,  or  seem  to  think,  man  made  for  them.     50 

B.  Seldom,  alas  !  the  power  of  logick  reigns, 
With  much  sufficiency  in  royal  brains  ; 

Such  reas'ning  falls  hke  an  inverted  cone. 

Wanting  its  proper  base  to  stand  upon. 

Man  made  for  kings  1  those  opticks  are  but  dim,        55 

That  tell  you  so — say,  rather,  they  for  him. 

That  were  indeed  a  king-ennobling  thought, 

Gould  they,  or  would  they,  reason  as  they  ought. 

The  diadem  with  mighty  projects  lin'd, 

To  catch  renown  by  ruining  mankind,  60 

Is  worth,  with  all  its  gold  and  glitt'ring  store, 

Just  what  the  toy  will  sell  for,  and  no  more. 

Qh  !  bright  occasions  of  dispensing  good, 

How  seldom  used,  how  little  understood ! 

To  pour  in  Virtue's  lap  her  just  reward  \  65 

Keep  vice  restrain'd  behind  a  double  guard  j 


TABLE  TALK.  i. 

To  quell  the  fiction  that  affronts  the  throne, 
By  silent  magnanimity  alone  ; 
To  nurse  with  tender  care  the  thriving  arts ; 
Watch  ev'ry  beam  Philosophy  imparts ;  ?0 

To  give  Religion  her  unbridled  scope, 
Nor  judge  by  statute  a  believer's  hope  ; 
With  close  fidelity  and  love  unfeign'd, 
To  keep  the  matrimonial  bond  unstain'd ; 
Covetous  only  of  a  virtuous  praise ;  75 

His  life  a  lesson  to  the  land  he  sways ; 
To  touch  the  sword  with  conscientious  awe, 
Nor  draw  it  but  when  duty  bids  him  draw  ; 
To  sheath  it  in  the  peace-restoring  close 
With  joy  beyond  what  victory  bestaws  ;  80 

Blest  country  where  these  kingly  glories  shine  ! 
Blest  England,  if  this  happiness  be  thine  ! 

j1.     Guard  what  you  say  ;  the  patriotick  tribe 
Will  sneer  and  charge  you  with  a  bribe. — B.  A  bribe  ? 
The  worth  of  his  three  kingdoms  I  defy,  85 

To  lure  me  to  the  baseness  of  a  lie  ; 
And,  of  all  lies,  (be  that  one  poet's  boast,) 
The  lie  that  flatters  I  abhor  the  most. 
Those  arts  be  theirs,  who  hate  his  gentle  reign, 
But  he  that  loves  him  has  no  need  to  fain.  90 

j3.    Your  smooth  eulogium  to  one  crown  f^ddress'd, 
Seems  to  imply  a  censure  on  the  rest. 

B.  Quevedo,  as  he  teils  his  sober  tale, 
Ask'd,  when  in  Hell,  to  see  the  royal  jail ; 
Approved  their  method  in  all  other  things  ;  95 

But  where,  good  sir,  do  you  confine  your  kings.'* 
There,  said  his  guide — the  group  is  full  in  view. 
Indeed  ? — replied  the  Don — there  are  but  few. 
His  black  interpreter  the  charge  disdaln'd — 
Few,  fellow  ? — ^there  are  all  that  ever  reign'd.  lO'J 

Wit,  undistinguishing,  is  apt  to  strike 
The  guilty  and  not  guilty,  both  alike. 
I  grant  the  sarcasm  is  too  severe, 
And  we  can  readily  refute  it  here } 

Vol.  I.  3 


14  TABLE  TALK. 

While  Alfred's  name,  the  father  of  his  age,  105 

And  the  Sixth  Edward's  grace  th'  historick  page. 

A.  Kings  then  at  last  have  but  the  lot  of  all : 
By  their  own  conduct  they  must  stand  or  fall 

B.  True.    While  they  live,  the  courtly  laureat  pays 
His  quit -rent  ode,  his  peppercorn  of  praise  ;  110 
And  many  a  dunce,  whose  fingers  itch  to  write, 
Adds,  as  he  can,  his  tributary  mite  : 

A  subject's  faults  a  subject  may  proclaim, 

A  monarch's  errors  are  forbidden  game  ! 

Thus  free  from  censure,  overaw'd  by  fear,  115 

And  prais'd  for  virtues  that  they  scorn  to  wear, 

The  fleeting  forms  of  majesty  engage 

Respect,  while  stalking  o'er  life's  narrow  stage ; 

Then  leave  their  crimes  for  history  to  scan. 

And  ask  with  busy  scorn,  Was  this  the  nrjan  ^  120 

I  pity  kings,  whom  Worship  waits  upon. 
Obsequious  from  the  cradle  to  the  throne  ; 
Before  whose  infant  eyes  the  flatt'rer  bows. 
And  binds  a  wreath  about  their  baby  brows ; 
Whom  Education  stiffens  into  state,  125 

And  Death  awakens  from  that  dream  too  late. 
Oh !  if  Servility  with  supple  knees. 
Whose  trade  it  is  to  smile,  to  crouch,  to  please ; 
If  smooth  Dissimulation,  skill'd  to  grace 
A  devil's  purpose  with  an  angel's  face  ;  130 

If  smiling  peeresses,  and  simp 'ring  peers. 
Encompassing  his  throne  a  few  short  years  ; 
If  the  gilt  carriage  and  the  pamper'd  steed. 
That  wants  no  driving,  and  disdains  the  lead ; 
If  guards,  mechanically  form'd  in  ranks,  135 

Playing,  at  beat  of  drum,  their  martial  pranks, 
Should'ring  and  standing  as  if  stuck  to  stone, 
While  condescending  majesty  looks  on  j 
If  monarchy  consist  in  such  base  things, 
Sighhig,  I  say  again,  I  pity  kings  I  14C 

To  be  suspected,  thwarted,  and  withstood, 
E'en  when  he  labours  for  his  country's  good, 


TABLE  TALK.  15 

To  see  a  band  call'd  patriot  for  no  cause, 
But  that  they  catch  at  popular  applause, 
Careless  of  all  the  anxiety  he  feels,  145 

Hook  disappointment  on  the  publick  wheels  j 
With  all  their  flippant  fluency  of  tongue. 
Most  confident,  when  palpably  most  wrong ; 
If  this  be  kingly,  then  farewell  for  me 
All  kingship  ;  and  may  I  be  poor  and  free  !  15C 

To  be  the  Table  Talk  of  clubs  up  stairs, 
To  which  th'  unwash'd  artificer  repairs, 
T'  indulge  his  genius  after  long  fatigue. 
By  diving  into  cabinet  intrigue  ; 

(For  what  kings  deem'd  a  toil,  as  well  they  may,     155 
To  him  is  relaxation  and  mere  play,) 
To  win  no  praise,  when  well-wrought  plans  prevail, 
But  to  be  rudely  censur'd  when  they  fail ; 
To  doubt  the  love  his  fav'rites  may  pretend. 
And  in  reality  to  find  no  friend ;  160 

If  he  indulge  a  cultivated  taste, 
His  gall'ries  with  the  works  of  art  well  grac'd. 
To  hear  it  call'd  extravagance  and  waste  j 
If  these  attendants,  and  if  such  as  these. 
Must  follow  royalty,  then  welcome  ease  :  165 

However  humble  and  confin'd  the  sphere, 
Happy  the  state  that  has  not  these  to  fear. 
A.  Thus  men,  whose  thoughts  contemplative  have 
dwelt 
On  situations  that  they  never  felt, 
Start  up  sagacious,  cover'd  with  the  dust  170 

Of  dreaming  study  and  pedantick  rust. 
And  prate  and  preach  about  what  others  prove. 
As  if  the  world  and  they  were  hand  and  glove. 
Leave  kingly  backs  to  cope  with  kingly  cares  j 
They  have  their  weight  to  carry,  subjects  theirs ;    \1\> 
Poets,  of  all  men,  ever  least  regret 
Increasing  taxes,  and  the  nation's  debt. 
Could  you  contrive  the  payment,  and  rehearse 
The  mighty  plan,  oraculat  in  verse, 


16  TABLE  TALK. 

No  bard,  howe'er  majestick,  old  or  new,  180 

Should  claim  my  fix'd  attention  more  than  you. 

B.  Not  Brindley  nor  Bridge  water  would  essay 
To  turn  the  course  of  Helicon  that  way  ; 
Nor  would  the  Nine  consent  the  sacred  tide 
Should  purl  amidst  the  trafRck  of  Cheapside,  185 

Or  tinkle  in  Change  Alley,  to  amuse 
The  leathern  ears  of  stockjobbers  and  Jews. 

^.  Vouchsafe,  at  least,  to  pitch  the  key  of  ihyme 
To  themes  more  pertinent,  if  less  sublime. 
When  ministers  and  ministerial  arts;  190 

Patriots,  who  love  good  places  at  their  hearts ; 
When  admirals  extoU'd  for  standing  still, 
Or  doing  nothing  with  a  deal  of  skill ; 
Gen'rals  who  will  not  conquer  when  they  may, 
Firm  friends  to  peace,  to  pleasure,  and  good  pay ;    195 
When  Freedom,  wounded  almost  to  despair. 
Though  Discontent  alone  can  find  out  where  ; 
When  themes  like  these  employ  the  poet's  tongue, 
I  hear  as  mute  as  if  a  syren  sung. 
Or  tell  me,  if  you  can,  what  pow'r  maintains  200 

A  Briton's  scorn  of  arbitrary  chains  ? 
That  were  a  theme  might  animate  the  dead. 
And  move  the  lips  of  poets  cast  in  lead. 

B.  The  cause,  tho' worth  the  search,  may  yet  eludo 
Conjecture  and  remark,  however  shrewd.  2u5 

They  take  perhaps  a  well-directed  aim. 
Who  seek  it  in  his  climate  and  his  frame. 
Lib'ral  in  all  things  else,  yet  Nature  here 
With  stern  severity  deals  out  the  year. 
Winter  invades  the  spring,  and  often  pours  210 

A  chilling  flood  on  summer's  drooping  flow'rs  , 
Unwelcome  vapours  quench  autumnal  beams, 
Ungenial  blasts  attending  curl  the  streams  ; 
The  peasants  urge  their  harvest,  ply  the  fork 
With  double  toil,  and  shiver  at  their  work  ;    •  215 

Thus  with  a  rigour,  for  his  good  design'd, 
She  rears  her  ^av'rito  man  of  all  mankind. 


Hrt  form  robust,  ana  of  elastick  tone, 

Plajportion'd  well,  half  muscle  and  half  bone 

S»if  plies  with  warm  activity  and  force  220 

A  xnind  well  lodg'd,  and  mascuUne  of  course. 

Hence  Liberty,  sweet  Liberty  inspires, 

And  keeps  alive  his  fierce  but  nobl«  fires. 

Patient  of  constitutional  control, 

He  bears  it  with  meek  manliness  of  soul ;  225 

But,  if  Authority  grow  wanton,  v/o 

To  him  that  treads  upon  his  free-born  toe  ; 

One  step  beyond  the  bound'ry  of  the  laws 

Fires  him  at  once  in  Freedom's  glorious  cause. 

Thus  proud  prerogative,  not  much  rever'd,  230 

Is  seldom  felt,  though  sometimes  seen  and  heard  ; 

And  in  his  cage,  like  parrot  fine  and  gay, 

Is  kept  to  strut,  look  big,  and  talk  away. 

Born  in  a  climate  softer  far  than  ours, 
Not  forra'd  like  us,  with  such  Herculean  powr's,      235 
The  Frenchman,  easy,  debonair,  and  brisk, 
Give  him  his  lass,  his  fiddle,  and  his  frisk. 
Is  always  happy,  reign  whoever  may, 
And  laughs  the  sense  of  mis'ry  far  away. 
He  drinks  his  simple  bev'rage  with  a  gust ;  240 

And,  feasting  on  an  onion  and  a  crust, 
We  never  feel  the  alacrity  and  joy 
With  which  he  shouts  and  carols  Vive  le  Roi  ! 
Fill'd  with  as  much  true  merriment  and  glee, 
As  if  he  heard  his  king  say — '  Slave,  be  free  !*•  245 

Thus  happiness  depends,  as  Nature  shows, 
Less  on  exteriour  things  than  most  suppose. 
Vigilant  over  all  that  he  has  made. 
Kind  Providence  attends  with  gracious  aid ; 
Bids  equity  throughout  his  works  prevail,  250 

And  weighs  the  nations  in  an  even  scale ; 
He  can  encourage  slav'ry  to  a  smile, 
And  fill  with  discontent  a  British  isle. 

Ji  Freeman  and  slave,  then,  if  the  case  be  suclv 
Sland  on  a  level ;  and  you  prove  too  much  :  255' 

2« 


18  TABLE   TALK. 

If  all  men  indiscriminately  share 

His  fost'ring  power,  and  tutelary  care, 

As  wel!  be  yok'd  by  Despotism's  hand, 

As  dwell  at  large  in  Britain's  charter'd  land. 

B.  No.   Freedom  has  a  thousand  charms  to  show,  26C 
That  slaves,  howe'er  contented,  never  know. 
The  mind  attains  beneath  her  happy  reign 
The  growth,  that  Nature  meant  she  should  attain ', 
The  varied  fields  of  science,  ever  new, 
Op'ning,  and  wider  op'ning,  on  her  view,  2^ 

She  ventures  onward  with  a  prosp'rous  force, 
While  no  base  fear  impedes  her  in  her  course. 
Religion,  richest  favour  of  the  skies, 
Stands  most  reveal'd  before  the  freeman's  eyes ; 
No  shades  of  superstition  blot  the  day,  870 

Liberty  chases  all  that  gloom  away ; 
The  soul  emancipated,  unoppress'd. 
Free  to  prove  all  things,  and  hold  fast  the  best, 
Learns  much  ;  and  to  a  thousand  list'ning  minds 
Communicates  with  joy  the  good  she  finds ;  275 

Courage  in  arms,  and  ever  prompt  to  show 
His  manly  forehead  to  the  fiercest  foe  ; 
Glorious  in  war,  but  for  the  sake  of  peace, 
His  spirits  rising  as  his  toils  inciease. 
Guards  well  what  arts  and  industry  have  Won,         290 
And  Freedom  claims  him  for  her  first-born  son. 
Slaves  fight  for  what  were  better  cast  away — 
The  chain  that  binds  them,  and  a  tyrant's  sway  ; 
But  they  that  fight  for  freedom,  undertake 
The  noblest  cause  mankind  can  have  at  stake  285 

Religion,  virtue,  truth,  whate'er  we  call 
A  blessmg — ^freedom  is  the  pledge  of  all. 
O  Liberty  !  the  pris'ners  pleasing  drearh, 
The  poet's  muse,  his  passion,  and  his  theme  ; 
Genius  is  thine,  and  thou  art  Fancy's  nurse  ;  290 

Lost  v/ithout  thee  th'  ennobling  pow'rs  of  verse ; 
Heroick  song  from  thy  free  touch  acquires 
Its  clearest  tone,  the  rapture  it  inspires. 


:^.. 


TABLE  TALK.  *  19 

Place  me  wliere  Winter  breathes  his  keenest  air, 
And  I  will  sing,  if  Liberty  be  there  ;  295 

And  I  will  sing  at  Liberty's  dear  feet, 
In  Afric's  torrid  clime,  or  India's  nercest  heat. 

A.  Sing  where  you  please ;  in  such  a  cause  I  grant 
An  English  poet's  privilege  to  rant ; 

But  is  not  Freedom — at  least,  is  not  ours,  300 

Too  apt  to  play  the  wanton  with  her  pow'rs. 
Grow  freakish,  and,  o'erleaping  every  mound, 
Spread  anarchy  and  terrour  all  around  ? 

B.  Agreed.  But  would  you  sell  or  slay  your  horse 
For  bounding  and  curvetting  in  his  course  ?  305 
Or  if,  when  ridden  with  a  careless  rein. 

He  break  away,  and  seek  the  distant  plain  ? 
No.  His  high  mettle,  under  good  control. 
Gives  him  Olympick  speed,  and  shoots  hirn  to  the  goal. 

Let  Discipline  employ  her  wholesome  arts  ;  31C 

Let  magistrates  alert  perform  their  parts, 
Not  skulk  or  put  on  a  prudential  mask, 
As  if  their  duty  were  a  desperate  task  ; 
Let  active  Laws  apply  the  needful  curb, 
To  guard  the  Peace,  that  Riot  would  disturb  ;  315 

And  Liberty,  preserv'd  from  wild  excess. 
Shall  raise  no  feuds  for  armies  to  suppress. 
When  Tumult  lately  burst  his  prison  door, 
And  set  plebeian  thousands  in  a  roar  ; 
When  he  usurp'd  Authority's  just  place,  320 

And  dar'd  to  look  his  master  in  the  face  : 
When  the  rude  rabble's  watchword  was — destroy, 
And  blazing  London  seem'd  a  second  Troy  ; 
Liberty  blush'd,  and  hung  her  drooping  head, 
Beheld  their  progress  with  the  deepest  dread  ;  325 

Blush'd  that  effects  like  these  she  should  produce^ 
Worse  than  the  deeds  of  galley-slaves  broke  loose 
She  loses  in  such  storms  her  very  name, 
And  fierce  Licentiousness  should  bear  the  blame. 

Incomparable  gem  !  thy  worth  untold  ;  330 

Cheap,  the'  blood-bought,  and  thrown  away  when  sold  , 


20        *  TABLE   TALK. 

May  no  foes  ravish  thee,  and  no  false  friend 

Betray  thee,  while  professing  to  defend ! 

Prize  it,  ye  ministers  ;  ye  monarchs,  spare  ; 

Ye  patriots,  guard  it  with  a  miser's  care.  335 

A,  Patriots,  alas  !  the  few  that  have  been  fodad 
Where  nrost  they  flourish,  upon  English  ground, 
The  country's  need  have  scantily  supplied. 
And  the  last  left  the  scene,  when  Chatham  died. 

B,  Not  so — the  virtue  still  adorns  our  age,  340 
Though  the  chief  actor  died  upon  the  stage. 
In  him  Demosthenes  was  heard  again ; 
Liberty  taught  him  her  Athenian  strain : 
She  cloth'd  him  with  authority  and  awe. 
Spoke  from  his  lips,  and  in  his  looks  gave  law.         345 
His  speech,  his  form,  his  action,  full  of  grace, 
And  all  his  country  beaming  in  his  face, 
He  stood,..as  some  inimitable  hand 
Would  strive  to  make  a  Paul  or  TuUy  stand. 
No  sycophant  or  slave,  that  dar'd  oppose  350 
Her  sacred  cause,  but  trembled  when  he  rose  ; 
And  ev'ry  venal  stickler  for  the  yoke 
Felt  himself  crush'd  at  the  first  word  he  spoke. 

Such  men  are  rais'd  to  station  and  command, 
When  Providence  means  mercy  to  a  land.  355 

He  speaks,  and  they  appear  :  to  him  they  owe 
Skill  to  direct,  and  strength  to  strike  the  blow ; 
To  manage  with  address,  to  seize  with  pow'r 
The  crisis  of  a  dark  decisive  hour. 
.  So  Gideon  earn'd  a  victory  not  his  own ;  3GQ 

Subserviency  his  praise,  and  that  alone. 

Poor  England  !  thou  art  a  devoted  deer, 
Beset  with  every  ill  but  that  of  fear. 
Thee  nations  hunt }  all  mark  thee  for  a  prey ; 
They  swarm  around  thee,  and  thou  stand'st  at  ba^  365 
Undaunted  still,  though  wearied  and  perplex'd, 
Once  Chatham  sav'd  thee ;  but  who  saves  thee  Df.y  t  .*' 
Alas  !  the  tide  of  pleasure  sweeps  along  ! 

All,  that  should  be  the  boa^  of  British  song. 


TABLE  TALK.  21 

'Tis  not  the  wreath,  that  once  adorn'd  thy  brow,     370 
The  prize  of  happier  times,  will  serve  thee  now 
Our  ancestry,  a  gallant,  Christian  race, 
Patterns  of  ev'ry  virtue,  ev'ry  grace, 
Confes'd  a  God  ;  they  kneel'd  before  they  fought, 
And  prais'd  him  in  the  victories  he  wrought.  375 

Now  from  the  dust  of  ancient  days  bring  forth 
1  heir  sober  zeal,  integrity,  and  worth , 
Courage  ungrac'd  by  these,  affronts  the  skies, 
Is  but  the  fire  without  the  sacrifice. 
Tne  stream,  that  feeds  the  well-spring  of  the  heart,  380 
Not  more  invigorates  life's  noblest  part. 
Than  Virtue  quickens  with  a  warmth  divine 
The  pow'rs  that  Sin  has  brought  to  a  decline. 

A.  Th'  inestimable  Estimate  of  Brown 

Rose  like  a  paper  kite,  and  charm'd  the  town ;         385 
But  measures,  plann'd  and  executed  well, 
Shifted  the  wind  that  raised  it,  and  it  fell. 
He  trod  the  very  self-same  groiind  you  tread. 
And  Victory  refuted  all  he  said. 

B.  And  yet  his  judgment  was  not  fram*d  amiss ;   390 
Its  errour,  if  it  err'd,  was  merely  this — 

He  thought  the  dying  hour  already  come, 
And  a  complete  recov'ry  struck  him  dumb. 

But  that  efieminacy,  folly,  lust. 
Enervate  and  enfeeble,  and  needs  must ;  395 

And  that  a  nation  shamefully  debas'd 
Will  be  despis'd  and  trampled  on  at  last, 
Unless  sweet  Penitence  her  pow'rs  renew ; 
Is  truth,  if  history  itself  be  true. 

There  is  a  time  and  Justice  marks  the  date,  400 

For  long-forbearing  clemency  to  wait ; 
That  hour  elaps'd  th'  incurable  revolt 
Is  punish'd,  and  down  comes  the  thunderbolt. 
If  mercy  then  put  by  the  threat'ning  blow, 
Must  she  perform  the  same  kind  office  now  f  405 

May  she  ?  and  if  offended  Heav  n  be  still 
Accessible,  and  pray'r  prevail,  she  will 


22  TABLE  TALK. 

'TIS  not,  however,  insolence  and  noise, 

I'he  tempest  of  tumultuary  joys, 

Nor  is  it  yet  despondence  and  dismay  410 

Will  win  her  visits,  or  engage  her  stay ; 

Pray  T  only,  and  the  penitential  tear. 

Can  call  her  smiUng  down,  and  fix  her  here 

But  when  a  country,  (one  that  I  could  name,) 
In  prostitution  sinks  the  sense  of  shame  ;  415 

When  infamous  Venality,  grown  bold, 
Writes  on  his  bosom,  To  be  let  or  sold  ; 
When  Perjury,  that  Heav'n-defying  vice, 
Sells  oaths  by  tale,  and  at  the  lowest  price, 
Stamps  God's  own  name  upon  a  lie  just  made,         420 
To  turn  a  penny  in  the  way  of  trade  j 
When  Av'rice  starves,  (and  never  hides  his  face,) 
Two  or  three  millions  of  the  human  race. 
And  not  a  tongue  inquires,  how,  where,  or  when, 
Though  conscience  will  have  twinges  now  and  then ; 
When  profanation  of  the  sacred  cause,  426 

In  all  its  parts,  times,  ministry,  and  laws. 
Bespeaks  a  land,  once  Christian,  fall'n  and  lost. 
In  all,  but  wars  against  that  title  most  j 
What  follows  next  let  cities  of  great  name,  430 

And  regions  long  since  desolate,  proclaim. 
Nineveh,  Babylon,  and  ancient  Rome, 
Speak  to  the  present  times,  and  times  to  come  ; 
They  cry  aloud  in  ev'ry  careless  ear, 
Stop  while  you  may  ;  suspend  your  mad  career  j     435 
O  learn  from  our  example  and  our  fate, 
Learn  wisdom  and  repentance  ere  too  late. 

Not  only  Vice  disposes  and  prepares 
The  mind,  that  slimibers  sweetly  in  her  snares. 
To  stoop  to  Tyranny's  usurp'd  command,  440 

And  bend  her  polish'd  neck  beneath  his  hand, 
(A  dire  effect,  by  one  of  Nature's  laws, 
Orchangeabiy  connected  with  its  cause  ;) 
But  Providence  himself  will  intervene. 
To  throw  his  dark  displeasure  o*er  the  scene  445 


TABLE  TALK.  23 

All  are  his  instruments ;  each  form  of  war, 
What  bums  at  home,  or  threatens  from  afar : 
Nature  in  arras,  her  elements  at  strife. 
The  storms  that  overset  the  joys  of  life. 
Are  but  liis  rods  to  scourge  a  gi-uty  land,  450 

And  waste  it  at  the  bidding  of  his  hand. 
He  gives  the  word,  and  Mutiny  soon  roars 
In  all  her  gates,  and  shakes  her  distant  shores ; 
The  standards  of  all  nations  are  unfiirl'd ; 
She  has  one  foe,  and  that  one  foe  the  world.  455 

And,  if  he  doom  that  people  with  a  frown, 
And  mark  them  with  a  seal  of  wrath  press'd  down, 
Obduracy  takes  place  :  callous  and  tough. 
The  reprobated  race  grows  judgment  proof; 
Earth  shakes  beneath  them,  and  Heav'n  roars  above;  460 
But  nothing  scares  them  ftom  the  course  they  love. 
To  the  lascivious  pipe  and  wanton  song. 
That  charm  down  fear,  they  frolick  it  along, 
With  mad  rapidity  and  unconcern, 
Down  to  the  gulf,  from  which  is  no  return.  465 

They  trust  in  navies,  and  their  navies  fail — 
God's  curse  can  cast  away  ten  thousand  sail ! 
They  trust  in  armies,  and  their  courage  dies  ; 
In  wisdom,  wealth,  in  fortune,  and  in  lif^s , 
But  all  they  trust  in,  withers,  as  it  must,'  470 

When  He  commands,  in  whom  they  place  no  trust. 
Vengeance  at  last  pours  down  upon  their  coast 
A  long  despis'd,  but  now  victorious,  host ; 
Tyranny  sends  the  chain,  that  must  abridge 
The  noble  sweep  of  all  their  privilege  ;  475 

Gives  liberty  the  last,  the  mortal  shock : 
Slips  tho  slave's  collar  on,  and  snaps  the  lock. 

A.  Such  lofty  strains  embellish  what  you  teach. 
Mean  you  to  prophesy,  or  but  to  preach  ? 

B.  I  know  the  mind  that  feels  indeed  the  fire        48(1 
The  muse  imparts,  and  can  command  the  lyre. 

Acts  with  a  force  and  kindles  with  a  zeal, 
Whato'er  the  theme,  that  others  never  feeL 


24  TABLF  TALK. 

If  hum  in  woes  her  soft  attention  claim, 

A  tender  sympathy  pervades  the  frame  }  435 

She  pours  a  sensibility  divine 

Along  the  nerves  of  every  feeling  line. 

But  if  a  deed  not  tamely  to  be  borne 

Fire  indignation  and  a  sense  of  scorn, 

The  strings  are  swept  with  such  a  pow*r  so  loud,     490 

The  storm  of  musick  shakes  th'  astonish'd  crowd. 

So,  when  remote  futurity  is  brought 

Before  the  keen  inquiry  of  her  thought, 

A  terrible  sagacity  informs 

The  poet's  heart ;  he  looks  to  distant  storms ;  495 

He  hears  the  thunder  ere  the  tempest  low'rs  j 

And,  arm'd  with  strength  surpassing  human  pow'rS;^ 

Seizes  events  as  yet  unknown  to  man, 

And  darts  his  soul  into  the  dawning  plan. 

Hence  in  a  Roman  mouth,  the  gracf  Tul  name  500 

Of  prophet  and  of  poet  was  the  same  ; 

Hence,  British  poets,  too,  tho  priesthood  shar'd. 

And  every  hallow'd  druid  was  a  bard. 

But  no  prophetick  fires  to  me  belong  ; 

I  play  with  syllables,  and  sport  in  song.  505 

j3.  At  Westminster,  where  little  poets  strive 
To  set  a  distich  upon  six  and  five, 
Where  Discipline  helps  th'  op'ning  buds  of  sense, 
And  makes  his  pupils  proud  with  silver  pence, 
I  was  a  poet  too  :  but  modern  taste  510 

Is  so  refin'd,  and  deUcate,  and  chaste, 
That  verse,  whatever  fire  the  fancy  warms. 
Without  a  creamy  smoothness  has  no  charms. 
Thus,  all  success  depending  on  an  ear, 
And  thinking  I  might  purchase  it  too  dear,  515 

If  sentiment  were  sacrific'd  to  sound, 
And  truth  cut  short  to  make  a  period  round, 
I  judg'd  a  man  of  sense  could  scarce  do  worse, 
Than  caper  in  the  morris-dance  of  verse. 

B.  Thus  reputation  is  a  spur  to  wit,  520 

And  some  wits  flag  through  fear  of  losing  it 


TABLE  TALK  25 

Oive  me  Iha  line  that  ploughs  its  stately  course 
Like  a  proud  swan,  conqu'ring  the  stream  by  force  j 
That,  like  some  cottage  beauty,  strikes  the  heaxt, 
Quite  unindebted  to  the  tricks  of  art.  525 

When  Labour  and  when  Dulness  club  in  hand, 
Like  the  two  figures  at  St.  Dunstan's,  stand, 
Beating  alternately  in  measur'd  time, 
The  clock-work  tintinabulum  of  rhyme, 
Exact  and  regular  the  sounds  will  be  j  530 

But  such  mere  quarter-strokes  are  not  for  me. 

From  him  who  rears  a  poem  lank  and  long, 
To  him  who  strains  his  all  into  a  song ; 
Perhaps  some  bonny  Caledonian  air, 
All  birks  and  braes,  though  he  was  never  there  5      536 
Or,  having  whelp 'd  a  prologue  with  great  pains. 
Feels  himself  spent,  and  fumbles  for  his  brains ; 
A  prologue  interdash'd  with  many  a  stroke — 
An  art  contriv'd  to  advertise  a  joke. 
So  that  the  jest  is  clearly  to  be  seen,  540 

Not  in  the  words — ^but  in  the  gap  between : 
Manner  is  all  in  all,  whate'er  is  writ 
To  substitute  for  genius,  sense,  and  wit. 

To  dally  much  with  subjects  mean  and  low 
Proves  that  the  mind  is  weak,  or  makes  it  so.  545 

Neglected  talents  rust  into  decay, 
And  ev'ry  effort  ends  in  pushpin  play. 
The  man  that  means  success  should  soar  above 
A  soldier's  feather,  or  a  lady's  glove  ; 
Else,  summoning  the  muse  to  such  a  theme,  560 

The  fruit  of  all  her  labour  is  whipp'd  cream, 
As  if  an  eagle  flew  alofl,  and  then — 
Sto'op'd  from  ita  highest  pitch  to  pcimce  a  wren 
As  if  the  poet,  purposing  to  wed. 
Should  carve  himself  a  wife  in  gingerbread.  555 

Ages  olaps'd  ere  Homer's  lamp  appear 'd. 
And  ages  ere  the  Mantuan  swan  was  heard. 
To  carry  Nature's  lengths  unknown  before. 
To  give  a  Milton  birth,  ask'd  ages  more. 

Vol.  L  3 


26  TABLE  TALK. 

Thus  Genius  rose  and  set  at  order'd  times,  660 

And  shot  a  day-spring  into  distant  climes, 

Ennobling  ev*ry  region  that  he  chose  ; 

He  sunk  in  Greece,  in  Italy  he  rose  ; 

And,  tedious  years  of  Crothick  darkness  pass*d, 

Emerg'd  all  splendour  in  our  isle  at  last.  565 

Thus  lovely  halcyons  dive  into  the  main, 

Then  show  far  off  their  shining  plumes  again. 

A.  Is  genius  only  found  in  epick  lays  ? 
Prove  this,  and  forfeit  all  pretence  to  praise. 

Make  their  heroick  pow'rs  your  own  at  once,  570 

Or  candidly  confess  yourself  a  dunce. 

B.  These  were  the  chief:  each  interval  of  night 
Was  grac'd  with  many  an  undulating  light. 

In  less  illustrious  bards  his  beauty  shone 

A  meteor  or  a  star ;  in  these  the  sun.  59*5 

The  nightingale  may  claim  the  topmost  bough, 
While  the  poor  grasshopper  must  chirp  below. 
Like  him  unnotic'd  I,  and  such  as  I, 
Spread  little  wings,  and  rather  skip  than  fly  ', 
Perch'd  on  the  meagre  produce  of  the  land,  580 

An  ell  or  two  of  prospect  we  command  ; 
But  never  peep  beyond  the  thorny  bound. 
Or  oaken  fence  that  hems  the  paddock  round. 

In  Eden,  ere  yet  innocence  of  heart 
Had  faded,  poetry  was  not  an  art :  585 

Language  above  all  teaching,  or,  if  taught, 
Only  by  gratitude  and  glowing  thought, 
Elegant  as  simplicity,  and  warm 
As  ecstasy,  unmanacled  by  form. 
Not  prompted,  as  in  our  degen'rate  days,  590 

By  low  ambition  and  the  thirst  of  praise. 
Was  natural  as  is  the  flowing  stream. 
And  yet  magnificent — ^A  God  the  theme  ! 
That  theme  on  Earth  eidiausted,  though  above 
'Tis  found  as  everlasting  as  his  love,  595 

Man  lavish'd  all  his  thoughts  on  human  things— 
The  feals  of  heroes,  and  the  wrath  of  Kings  ; 


TABLE  TALK.  27 

But  still,  while  virtue  kindled  his  delight, 
The  song  was  moral,  and  so  far  was  right. 
Twas  thus  till  Luxury  seduc'd  the  mind  600 

To  joys  less  innocent,  as  It^ss  refin'd ; 
Then  Genius  danc'd  a  bacchanal ;  he  crown'd 
The  brimming  goblet,  seiz'd  the  thyrsus,  bound 
His  brows  with  ivy,  rush'd  into  the  field 
Ot  wild  imagination,  and  there  reel'd,  605 

The  victim  of  his  own  lascivious  fires, 
And,  dizzy  with  delight,  profan'd  the  sacred  wires. 
Anacreon,  Horace,  play'd  in  Greece  and  Rome 
This  bedlam  part,  and  others  nearer  home. 
When  Cromwell  fought  for  pow'r,  and  while  he  reign'd 
The  proud  protector  of  the  power  he  gain'd,  611 

Religion  harsh,  intolerant,  austere. 
Parent  of  manners  like  herself  severe. 
Drew  a  rough  copy  of  the  Christian  face, 
Without  the  smile,  the  sweetness,  or  the  grace  ;      615 
The  dark  and  sullen  humour  of  the  time 
Judg'd  ev'ry  efibrt  of  the  muse  a  crime  ; 
Verse,  in  the  finest  mould  of  fancy  cast, 
Was  lumber  in  an  age  so  void  of  taste  : 
But  when  the  second  Charles  assum'd  the  sway,      630 
And  arts  reviv'd  beneath  a  softer  day. 
Then  like  a  bow  long  forc'd  into  a  curve, 
The  mind,  releas'd  from  too  constrain'd  a  nerve, 
Flew  to  its  first  position  with  a  spring. 
That  made  the  vaulted  roofs  of  Pleasure  ring.  625 

His  court,  the  dissolute  and  hateful  school 
Of  Wantonness,  where  vice  was  taught  by  rule, 
Swarm'd  with  a  scribbling  herd,  as  deep  inlaid 
With  brutal  lust  as  ever  Circe  made. 
From  these  a  long  succession,  in  a  rage  630 

,  Of  rank  obscenity  debauch'd  their  age  : 
Nor  ceas'd  till  ever  anxious  to  redress 
The  abuses  of  her  sacred  charge,  the  pr'><^s, 
The  muse  instructed  a  well-nurtur'd  train 
Of  abler  votaries  to  cleanse  the  stain,  635 


28  TABLE  TALK. 

And  claim  the  palm  for  purity  of  song, 

That  Lewdness  had  usurp 'd  and  worn  so  long. 

Then  decent  Pleasantry,  and  sterling  Sense, 

Tliat  neither  gave  nor  would  endure  offence, 

Whipp'd  out  of  sight,  with  satire  just  and  keen,        640 

The  puppy  pack,  that  had  defil'd  the  scene. 

In  front  of  these  came  Addison.     In  him 
Humour  in  holiday  and  sightly  trim, 
Sublimity  and  attick  taste  combin'd, 
To  polish,  furnish,  and  delight  the  mind.  645 

Then  Pope,  as  harmony  itself  exact. 
In  verse  well  disciplin'd,  complete,  compact, 
Gave  virtue  and  morality  a  grace, 
That  quite  eclipsing  Pleasure's  painted  face, 
Levied  a  tax  of  wonder  and  applause,  650 

E'en  on  the  fools  that  trampled  on  their  laws. 
But  he,  (his  musical  finesse  was  such. 
So  nice  his  ear,  so  delicate  his  touch,) 
Made  poetry  a  mere  mechanick  art  j 
And  ev'ry  warbler  has  his  tune  by  heart.  655 

Nature  imparting  her  satirick  gifl. 
Her  serious  mirth,  to  Arbuthnot  and  Swift, 
With  droll  sobriety  they  rais'd  a  smile 
At  Folly's  cost,  themselves  unmov'd  the  while. 
That  constellation  set,  the  world  in  vain  660 

Must  hope  to  look  upon  their  like  again. 

A.  Are  we  then  left — B.  Not  wholly  in  the  dark ; 
Wit  now  and  then,  struck  smar.tly,  shows  a  spark. 
Sufficient  to  redeem  the  modern  race 
From  total  night  and  absolute  disgrace.  665 

While  servile  trick  and  imitative  knack 
Confine  the  million  in  the  beaten  track. 
Perhaps  some  courser,  who  disdains  the  road. 
Snuffs  up  the  wind,  and  flings  himself  abroad. 

Contemporaries  all  surpass'd,  see  one  ;  670 

Short  his  career,  indeed,  but  ably  run  ; 
Churchill,  himself  unconscious  of  his  pow'rs, 
la  penury  coiiKuin'd  his  idle  hours  ; 


TABLE  TALK.  89 

And  like  a  scatter'd  seed  at  random  sown, 
Was  left  to  spring  by  vigour  of  his  own.  67S 

Lifted  at  length,  by  dignity  of  thought 
And  dint  of  genius  to  an  affluent  lot, 
He  laid  his  head  in  Luxury's  soft  lap, 
And  took,  too  often,  there  his  easy  nap. 
If  brighter  beams  than  all  he  threw  not  forth,  680 

'Twas  negligence  in  him,  not  want  of  worth. 
Surly,  and  slovenly,  and  bold,  and  coarse, 
Too  proud  for  art,  and  trusting  in  mere  force, 
Spendthrift  alike  of  money  and  of  wit. 
Always  at  speed,  and  never  drawing  bit,  685 

He  struck  the  lyre  in  such  a  careless  mood. 
And  so  disdain'd  the  rules  he  understood. 
The  laurel  seem'd  to  wait  on  his  command, 
He  snatch'd  it  rudely  from  the  muses'  hand. 
Nature,  exerting  an  unwearied  pow'r,  690 

Forms,  opens,  and  gives  scent  to  ev'ry  flower  ; 
Spreads  the  fresh  verdure  of  the  field,  and  leads 
The  dancing  Naiads  through  the  dewy  meads. 
She  fills  profuse  ten  thousand  little  throats 
With  musick,  modulating  all  their  notes ;  695 

And  charms  the  woodland  scenes,  and  wilds  unknown. 
With  artless  airs  and  concerts  of  her  own  ; 
But  seldom,  (as  if  fearful  of  expense,) 
Vouchsafes  to  man  a  poet's  just  pretence — 
Fervency,  freedom,  fluency  of  thought,  700 

Harmony,  strength,  words  exquisitely  sought ; 
Fancy,  that  from  the  bow  that  spans  the  sky. 
Brings  colours  dipp'd  in  Heav'n,  that  never  die  ; 
A  soul  exalted  above  earth,  a  mind 
Skill'd  in  the  characters  that  form  mankind  ;         |    705 
And  as  the  sun  in  rising  beauty  dress'd, 
Looks  to  the  westward  from  the  dappled  east. 
And  marks  whatever  clouds  may  interpose. 
Ere  yet  his  race  begins,  its  glorious  close  ; 
And  eye  like  his  to  catch  the  distant  goal ,  >J0 

Or,  ere  the  wheels  of  verse  begin  ro  roll, 
3* 


30  TABi.E  TALK. 

Lilte  his  to  shed  illuminating  rays 

On  ev'ry  scene  and  subject  it  surveyg  : 

Thus  grac'd,  the  man  asserts  a  poet's  name, 

And  the  world  cheerfully  admits  the  claim.  715 

Pity  Religion  has  so  seldom  found 
A  skilful  guide  into  poetick  ground ! 
The  flow'rs  would  spring  where'er  she  deign'd  to  stray 
And  ev'ry  muse  attend  her  in  her  way. 
Virtue  indeed,  meets  many  a  rhyming  friend,  720 

And  many  a  compliment  politely  penn'd  ', 
But,  unattir'd  in  that  becoming  vest 
Roligion  weaves  for  her.  and  half  undress'd, 
Stands  in  the  desert,  slnvTing  and  forlorn, 
A  wintry  figure,  like  a  wither'd  thorn.  725 

The  shelves  are  full,  all  other  themes  are  sped ; 
Hackney'd  and  worn  to  the  last  flimsy  thread, 
Satire  has  long  since  done  his  best  ;  and  curst 
And  loathsome  ribaldry  has  done  his  worst  j 
Fancy  has  sported  all  her  pow'rs  away  730 

In  tales,  in  trifles,  and  in  children's  play ; 
And  'tis  the  sad  complaint,  and  almost  true, 
Whate'er  we  write,  we  bring  forth  nothing  new. 
Twere  new  indeed  to  see  a  bard  all  fire, 
Touch'd  with  a  coal  from  Heav'n,  assume  the  lyre,  735 
And  tell  the  world,  still  kindling  as  he  sung. 
With  more  than  mortal  musick  on  his  tongue, 
That  He,  who  died  below,  and  reigns  above, 
Inspires  the  song,  and  that  his  name  is  Love. 

For,  after  all,  if  merely  to  beguile,  740 

By  flowing  numbers,  and  a  flow'ry  style. 
The  tedium  that  the  lazy  rich  endure, 
Which  now  and  then  sweet  poetry  may  cure  , 
Or,  if  to  see  the  name  of  idle  self, 

Stamp'd  on  the  well-bound  quarto,  grace  the  shelf,  745 
To  float  a  bubble  on  the  brsath  of  Fame, 
Prompt  his  endeavour  and  engage  his  aim, 
Debos'dto  servile  purposes  or  pride, 
How  ar  •  the  powVs  of  genius  misapplied  ! 


TABLE  TALK.  3i 

The  gift  whose  offiCij  i:^  the  Giver's  praise,  750 

To  trace  him  in  his  word,  his  works,  his  ways  ? 
Then  spread  the  rich  discov'ry,  and  invite 
Mankind  to  share  in  the  divine  delight, 
Distorted  from  its  use  and  just  design, 
To  make  the  pitiful  possessor  shine,  TSfr 

To  purchase  at  the  fool-frequented  fair 
Of  Vanity,  a  wreath  for  self  to  wear, 
Is  profanation  of  the  basest  kind — 
Proof  of  a  trifling  and  a  worthless  mind,  759 

A.  Hail,   Stemhold,   then ;  and,  Hopkins,  hail ! — B, 
If  flatt'ry,  folly,  lust,  employ  the  pen ;  [Amen. 

If  acrimony,  slander,  and  abuse. 
Give  it  a  charge  to  blacken  and  traduce  ; 
Though  Butler's  wit.  Pope's  numbers,  Prior's  ease, 
With  all  that  fancy  can  invent  to  please,  765 

Adorn  the  polish'd  periods  as  they  fall, 
One  madrigal  of  theirs  is  worth  them  all. 

A,  'Twould  thin  the  ranks  of  the  poetick  tribe, 
To  dash  the  pen  through  all  that  you  proscribe. 

B.  No  matter — ^we  could  shift  when  they  were  not  % 
And  should,  no  dcubt,  if  they  were  all  forgota  771 


THK 

PROGRESS  OF  ERROUR. 


Si  quid  loquar  audiendum....Iifor.  Lib.  iv.  Od,  2. 

SING,  muse,  (if  such  a  Iheme,  so  dark,  so  long, 
May  find  a  muse  to  grace  it  with  a  song,) 
By  what  unseen  and  unsuspected  arts. 
The  serpent  Errour  twines  round  human  hearts ; 
Tell  where  she  lurks,  beneath  what  flow'ry  shadefl,      5 
That  not  a  glimpse  of  genuine  light  pervades, 
The  pois'nous,  black,  insinuating  worm 
Successfully  conceals  her  loathsome  form. 
Take,  if  ye  can,  ye  careless  and  supine. 
Counsel  and  caution  from  a  voice  like  mine !  10 

Truths,  that  the  theorist  could  never  reach. 
And  observation  taught  me,  I  would  teach. 

Not  all,  whose  eloquence  the  fancy  fills, 
Musical  as  the  chime  of  tinkling  rills, 
Weak  to  perform,  though  mighty  to  pretend,  15 

Can  trace  her  mazy  windings  to  their  end  ; 
Discern  the  fraud  beneath  the  specious  lure, 
Prevent  the  danger,  or  prescribe  the  cure. 
The  clear  harangue,  and  cold  as  it  is  clear, 
Falls  soporifick  on  the  listless  ear  ;  20 

Like  quicksilver,  the  rhet'rick  they  display 
Shines  as  it  runs,  but  grasp'd  at  slips  away. 

Plac'd  for  his  trial  on  this  bustling  stage, 
From  thoughtless  youth  to  ruminating  age, 
Free  in  his  will  to  choose  or  to  refuse,  25 

Man  may  improve  the  crisis  or  abuse  ; 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROUR  3-*. 

Zllso  on  the  fatalist's  unrighteous  plan, 
Say  to  what  bar  amenable  were  man  ? 
With  nought  in  charge  he  could  betray  ho  iivHii  J 
And,  if  he  fell,  would  fall  because  he  must  t  30 

If  Love  reward  him,  or  if  Vengeance  strike. 
His  recompense  is  both  uiijust  alike. 
Divine  authority  within  his  breast 
-Brings  ev'ry  thought,  word,  action,  to  the  test : 
Warns  him  or  prompts,  approves  him  or  restrains,    35 
As  Reason,  or  as  Passion  takes  the  reins. 
Heav'n  from  above,  and  Conscience  from  within, 
Cries  in  his  startled  ear — Abstain  from  sin  ! 
The  world  around  solicits  his  desire, 
And  kindles  in  his  soul  a  treach'rous  fire  ;  40 

While,  all  his  purposes  and  steps  to  guard, 
Peace  follows  Virtue  as  its  sure  reward ; 
And  Pleasure  brings  as  surely  in  her  traiii 
Remorse,  and  Sorrow,  and  vindictive  Pain. 

Man,  thus  endu'd  with  an  elective  voice,  45 

Must  be  supplied  with  objects  of  his  choice  ; 
Where'er  he  turns,  enjoyment  and  delight, 
Or  present,  or  in  prospect,  meet  his  sight ; 
Those  open  on  the  spot  their  honey'd  store  : 
These  call  him  loudly  to  pursuit  of  more.  *  ^    50 

His  unexhausted  mine  the  sordid  vice 
Avarice  dhows,  and  virtue  is  the  price. 
Here  various  motives  his  ambition  raise — 
Pow'r,  pomp,  £Lnd  splendour,  and  the  thirst  of  praise. 
There  Beauty  woos  him  with  expanded  arms  ;  S5 

E'en  Bacchanalian  madness  has  its  charms. 

Nor  these  alone   whose  pleasures,  less  refin'd. 
Might  well  alarm  the  most  unguarded  mind. 
Seek  to  supplant  his  inexperienc'd  youth, 
Or  lead  him  devious  from  the  path  of  truth  ,  60 

Hourly  allurements  on  his  passions  press, 
Safe  in  themselves,  but  dang'rous  in  th'  excess. 

Hark !  how  it  floats  upon  the  dewy  air  * 
O,  what  a  dying,  dying  close  was  there  ! 


34  THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROUR. 

'Tis  harmony  from  yon  sequester'd  bow'r,  65 

Sweet  harmony,  that  soothes  the  midnight  hour  I 

Long  ere  the  charioteer  of  day  had  run 

His  morning  course,  th'  enchantment  was  begun 

And  he  shall  gild  yon  mountain's  height  again, 

Ere  yet  the  pleasing  toil  becomes  a  pain.  70 

Is  this  the  rugged  path,  the  steep  ascent, 

'That  Virtue  points  to  ?  Can  a  life  thus  spent 

Lead  to  the  bliss  she  promises  the  wise. 

Detach  the  soul  from  earth,  and  speed  her  to  the  skies  f 

Ye  devotees  to  your  ador'd  employ,  75 

Enthusiasts,  drunk  with  an  imreal  joy. 

Love  makes  the  musick  of  the  blest  above, 

Heav'n*s  harmony  is  universal  love  ; 

And  earthly  sounds,  tho'  sweet  and  well  combin'd, 

And  lenient  as  soft  opiates  to  the  mind,  80 

Leave  Vice  and  Folly  unsubdu'd  behind. 

Gray  dawn  appears  ;  the  sportsman  and  his  train 
Speckle  the  bosom  of  the  distant  plain  ; 
*Tis  he,  the  Nimrod  of  the  neighb'ring  lairs ; 
Save  that  his  scent  is  less  acute  than  theirs,  85 

For  persevering  chase,  and  headlong  leaps, 
True  beagle  as  the  stanchest  hound  he  keeps. 
Charg-d  with  the  folly  of  his  life's  mad  scene, 
He  takes  offence,  and  wonders  what  you  mean 
The  joy  the  danger  and  the  toil  o'erpays —  90 

*Tis  exercise,  and  health,  and  length  of  days. 
Again  impetuous  to  the  field  he  flies  ; 
Leaps  ev'ry  fence,  but  one,  there  falls  and  dies ; 
Like.^^Jain  deer,  the  tumbrel  bring&him  home, 
IJnmiss'd  but  by  his  dogs  and  by  his  groom.  95 

Ye  clergy,  while  your  orbit  is  your  place, 
Lights  of  the  world,  and  stars  of  human  race  ; 
But  if  eccentrick  ye  forsake  your  sphere, 
Prodigies  ominous,  and  view'd  with  fear  ; 
The  comet's  baneful  influence  is  a  dream  ;  100 

Yours  real  and  pernicious  in  th'  extreme. 
What  then  ! — are  appetites  and  lusts  laid  down 
With  the  same  ease  that  man  puts  on  his*  gown  ? 


OF  THE 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROUR.  3d 

Will  Av'rico  and  Concupiscence  give  place, 
Charmed  by  the  sounds — ^Your    Rtf^'rence,  or  Your 
Grace  ?  105 

No.    But  his  own  engagement  binds  him  fast ; 
Or,  if  it  does  not,  brands  him  to  the  last. 
What  atheists  call  him — a  designing  knave, 
A  mere  church-juggler,  hypocrite,  and  slave. 
Oh,  laugh,  or  mourn  with  me  the  rueful  jest,  110 

A  cassock'd  huntsman,  and  a  fiddling  priest  • 
He  from  Italian  songsters  takes  his  cue : 
Set  Paul  to  musick,  he  shall  quote  him  too. 
He  takes  the  field,  the  master  of  the  pack 
Cries — Well  done,  saint !  and  claps  him  on  the  back.  115 
Is  this  the  path  of  sanctity  ?  Is  this 
To  stand  a  way-mark  in  the  road  to  bliss  ? 
Himself  a  wanderer  from  the  narrow  way, 
His  silly  sheep  what  wonder  if  they  stray  ? 
Go,  cast  your  orders  at  your  Bishop's  feet,  120 

Send  your  dishonoured  gown  to  Monmouth-street ! 
The  sacred  function  in  your  hands  is  made- 
Sad  sacrilege  !  no  function,  but  a  trade  ! 

Occiduus  is  a  pastor  of  renown ; 
When  he  has  pray'd  and  preach'd  the  sabbath  down, 
With  wire  and  catgut  he  concludes  the  day,  126 

Quav'ring  and  semiquav'ring  care  away. 
The  full  concerto  swells  upon  your  ear ; 
All  elbows  shake.     Look  in,  and  you  would  swear 
The  Babylonian  tyrant  with  a  nod,  190 

Had  summoned  them  to  serve  his  golden  god. 
So  well  that  thought  th'  employment  seems  to  suit, 
Psalt'ry  and  sackbut,  dulcimer,  and  flute. 
O  fie  !  'tis  evangelical  and  pure  : 

Observe  each  face,  how  sober  and  demure  136 

Ecstasy  sets  her  stamp  on  every  mien  ; 
Chins  fall'n  and  not  an  eyeball  to  be  seen. 
Still  I  insist,  though  musick  heretofore 
Has  charm'd  me  much,  (not  e'n  Occiduus  more,) 
Love,  joy,  and  peace,  make  harmony  more  meet      140 


36     THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROUR. 

For  Sabbath  ev'nings,  and  perhaps  as  sweet. 
Will  not  the  sickliest ^shLB.Qp,^xx:iXfl?ck 
Resort  to  this  example  as  a  rock ; 
There  stand,  and  justify  the  foul  abuse 
Of  sabbath  hours  with  plausible  excuse  ?  141^ 

If  apostolick  gravity  be  free 
To  play  the  fool  on  Sundays,  why  not  we  .'' 
If  he  the  tinkling  harpsichord  regards 
As  inoffensive,  what  offence  in  cards  ? 
Strike  up  the  fiddles,  let  us  all  be  gay,  15f 

Laymen  have  leave  to  dance,  if  parsons  play. 

Oh  Italy  !— Thy  sabbaths  will  be  soon 
Our  sabbaths,  clos'd  with  mumm'ry  and  buffoon. 
Preaching  and  pranks  will  share  the  motley  scene, 
Ours  parcell'd  out,  as  thine  have  ever  been,  155 

God's  worship  and  the  mountebank  between. 
What  says  the  prophet  ?  Let  that  day  be  blest 
With  holiness  and  consecrated  rest. 
Pastime  and  business  both  it  should  exclude, 
And  bar  the  door  the  moment  they  intrudo^^  160 

Nobly  distinguish' d  above  all  the  six 
By  deeds,  in  which  the  world  must  never  mix. 
Hear  hini  again.     He  calls  it  a  delight, 
A  day  of  luxury  observ'd  aright. 
When  the  glad  soul  is  made  Heav'ns  welcome  guest, 
Sits  banqueting,  and  God  provides  the  feast.  166 

Bnt  triflers  are  engag'd  and  cannot  come ; 
Their  answer  to  the  call  is — JVot  at  home. 

O  the  dear  pleasures  of  the  velvet  plain, 
The  painted  tablets,  dealt  and  dealt  again !  171) 

Cards  with  what  rapture,  and  the  polish'd  die, 
The  yawning  chasm  of  indolence  supply  ! 
Then  to  the  dance,  and  make  the  sober  moon 
Witness  of  joys  that  shun  the  sight  of  noon 
Blame,  cynick,  if  you  can,  quadrille  or  ball,  175 

The  snug  close  party,  or  the  splendid  hall. 
Where  night,  down-stooping  from  her  ebon  throi^e 
Views  constellations  brighter  than  her  own. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROUR.  37 

'Tifl  innocent,  and  harmless,  and  refin*d, 
'The  balm  of  care,  Elysium  of  the  mmd.  180 

Innocent !  Oh,  if  venerable  Time 
Slain  at  the  foot  of  pleasure  be  no  crime, 
Then,  with  his  silver  beard  and  magick  wand. 
Let  Comus  rise  archbishop  of  the  land  ; 
LfBt  him  your  rubrick  and  your  feasts  prescribe,        !8S 
Grand  metropolitan  of  all  the  tribe. 

Of  manners  rough,  and  coarse  athletick  cast, 
The  rank  debauch  suits  Clodio's  filthy  taste. 
Rusillus,  exquisitely  form'd  by  rule, 
Not  of  the  moral,  but  the  dancing  school,  190 

Wonders  at  Clodio's  follies,  in  a  tone 
As  tragical,  as  others  at  his  own. 
He  cannot  drink  five  bottles,  bilk  the  score, 
Then  kill  a  constable,  and  drink  five  more  : 
But  he  can  draw  a  pattern,  make  a  tart,  195 

And  has  the  ladies'  etiquette  by  heart. 
Go,  fool ;  and,  arm  in  arm  with  Clodio,  plead 
Your  cause  before  a  bar  you  little  dread : 
But  know,  the  law,  that  bids  the  drunkard  die, 
Is  far  too  just  to  pass  the  trifler  by.  200 

Both  baby  featur'd,  and  of  infant  size, 
View'd  from  a  distance,  and  with  heedless  eye* 
Folly  and  Innocence  are  no  alike. 
The  difiPrence,  though  essential,  fails  to  fltrike> 
Yet  Folly  ever  has  a  vacant  stare,  205 

A  simp'rmg  count'nance,  and  a  trifling  air : 
But  Innocence,  sedate,  serene,  erect, 
Delights  us,  by  engaging  our  respect. 
Man,  Nature's  guest  by  invitation  sweet. 
Receives  from  her  both  appetite  and  treat ;  210 

But  if  he  play  the  glutton,  and  exceed, 
His  benefactress  blushes  at  the  deed  ', 
For  Nature,  nice,  as  lib'ral  to  dispense. 
Made  nothing  but  a  brute  the  slave  of  sense. 
Daniel  ate  pulse  by  choice- ^example  rare  '  215 

Heaven  bless'd  the  youth,  and  made  him  fresh  and  fair. 

Vol.  I.  4 


38  THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROUR. 

Gorgonius  sits,  abdominous  and  wan, 

Like  a  fat  squab  upon  a  Chinese  fan  : 

He  snuffs  far  off  the  anticipated  joy  ; 

Turtle  and  ven'son  all  his  thoughts  employ ,  220 

Prepares  for  meals  as  jockies  take  a  sweat, 

Oh.  nauseous  ! — an  emetick  for  a  whet ! 

Will  Providence  o'erlook  the  wasted  good  ? 

Temperance  were  no  virtue  if  he  could. 

That  pleasures,  therefore,  or  what  such  we  call,  225 
Are  hurtful,  is  a  truth  confess'd  by  all. 
And  some,  that  seem'd  to  threaten  virtue  leM, 
Still  hurtful  in  th'  abuse,  or  by  the  excess. 

Is  man  then  only  for  his  torment  plac'd 
The  centre  of  delights  he  may  not  taste  ?  230 

Like  fabled  Tantalus  condemn'd  to  hear 
The  precious  stream  still  purling  in  his  ear, 
Lip  deep  in  what  he  longs  for,  and  yet  curs'd 
With  prohibition,  and  perpetual  thirst  ? 
No,  wrangler, — destitute  of  shame  and  sense,  235 

The  precept,  that  enjoins  him  abstinence, 
Forbids  him  none  but  the  licentious  joy, 
Whose  fruit,  though  fair,  tempts  only  to  destroy. 
Remorse,  the  fatal  egg  by  pleasure  laid 
In  every  bosom  where  her  nest  is  made,  240 

Hatch'd  by  the  beams  of  truth,  denies  him  rest, 
And  proves  a  raging  scorpion  in  his  breast. 
No  pleasure  ?  Are  domestick  comforts  dead  ? 
Are  all  the  nameless  sweets  of  friendship  fled  ?         244 
Has  time  worn  out,  or  fashion  put  to  shame,        [fame  ? 
fiood  sense,  good  health,  good  conscience,  and  good 
^Ji  these  belong  to  virtue,  and  all  prove, 
That  virtue  has  a  title  to  your  love. 
Have  you  no  touch  of  pity,  that  the  poor 
Stand  starv'd  at  your  inhospitable  door  ?  250 

Or  if  yourself,  too  scantily  supplied, 
Need  help,  let  honest  industry  provide. 
Earn,  if  you  want ;  if  you  abound,  impart , 
These  both  are  pleasures  to  the  feeling  heart 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROUR.     39 

No  pleasure  ?  Has  some  sickly  eastern  waste  265 

Sent  us  a  wind  to  parch  us  at  a  blast  ? 

Can  British  Paradise  no  scenes  afford 

To  please  her  sated  and  indifferent  lord  ? 

Are  sweet  philosophy's  enjoyments  run 

Quite  to  the  lees  ?  And  has  religion  none  ?  260 

Brutes  capable  would  tell  you  'tis  a  lie, 

And  judge  you  from  the  kennel  and  the  sty. 

Delights  like  these,  ye  sensual  and  profane, 

Ye  are  bid,  begg'd,  besought  to  entertain ; 

Call'd  to  these  crystal  streams,  do  ye  turn  off  265 

Obscene  to  swill  and  swallow  at  a  trough  ? 

Envy  the  beast  then,  on  whom  Heav'n  bestowa 

Your  pleasures,  with  no  curses  in  the  close. 

Pleasure  admitted  in  undue  degree 
Enslaves  the  will,  nor  leaves  the  judgment  free.       270 
Tis  not  alone  the  grape's  enticing  juice, 
Unnerves  the  moral  powers,  and  mars  their  use : 
Ambition,  av'rice,  and  the  lust  of  fame, 
And  woman,  lovely  woman,  does  the  same. 
The  heart  surrender'd  to  the  ruling  power  275 

Of  some  ungovern'd  passion  every  hour, 
Finds  by  degrees  the  truths,  that  once  bore  sway, 
And  all  their  deep  impressions,  wear  away  ; 
So  coin  grows  smooth,  in  traffick  current  pass'd, 
Till  CaBsar's  image  is  effac'd  at  last.  280 

The  breach,  tho'  small  at  first,  soon  opening  wid« , 
In  rushes  folly  with  a  fiill-moon  tide. 
Then  welcome  errours  of  whatever  size, 
To  justify  it  by  a  thousand  lies. 

As  creeping  ivy  clings  to  wood  or  stone,  385 

And  hides  the  ruin  that  it  feeds  upon ; 
So  sophistry  cleaves  close  to  and  protects 
Sin's  rotten  trunk,  concealing  its  defects. 
Mortals,  whose  pleasures  are  their  only  care, 
First  wish  to  be  impos'd  on,  and  then  are.  290 

And,  lest  the  fulsome  artifice  should  fail, 
Themselves  will  hide  its  coarseness  with  a  veiL 


40  THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROUR. 

Not  more  industrious  are  the  just  and  true, 

To  give  to  Virtue  what  is  Virtue's  due — 

The  praise  of  wisdom,  comeliness,  and  worth,  "  S^ 

And  call  her  charms  to  publick  notice  forth — 

Than  Vice's  mean  and  disingenuous  race, 

To  hide  the  shocking  features  of  her  face. 

Her  form  with  dress  and  lotion  they  repair ; 

Then  kiss  their  idol,  and  pronounce  her  fair.  300 

The  sacred  implement  I  now  employ 
Might  prove  a  mischief,  or  at  best  a  toy ; 
A  trifle,  if  it  move  but  to  amuse  ; 
But,  if  to  wrong  the  judgment  and  abuse, 
Worse  than  a  poniard  in  the  basest  hand,  306 

It  stabs  at  once  the  morals  of  a  land. 

Ye  writers  of  what  none  with  safety  reads ; 
Footing  it  in  the  dance  that  Fancy  leads; 
Ye  novelists,  who  mar  what  ye  would  mend, 
Sniveling  and  driv'hng  folly  without  end  ;  310 

Whose  corresponding  misses  fill  the  ream 
With  sentimental  frippery  and  dream. 
Caught  in  a  delicate  soft  silken  net 
By  some  lewd  earl,  or  rakehell  baronet ; 
Ye  pimps,  who  under  virtue's  fair  pretence,  315 

Steal  to  the  closet  of  young  innocence, 
And  teach  her,  unexperienc'd  yet  and  green, 
To  scribble  as  you  scribbled  at  fifteen  j 
Who,  kindling  a  combustion  of  desire. 
With  some  cold  moral  think  to  quench  the  fire  ,       320 
Though  all  your  engineering  proves  in  vain, 
Th9  dribbling  stream  ne'er  puts  it  out  again. 
O  that  a  verse  had  pow'r,  and  could  command 
Far,  far  away  these  flesh-flies  of  the  land  j 
Who  fasten  without  mercy  on  the  fair,  326 

And  suck,  and  leave  a  craving  maggot  there ! 
Howe'er  disguis'd,  th'  inflammatory  tale. 
And  cover'd  with  a  fine-spun  specious  veil; 
Such  writers,  and  such  readers,  owe  the  gust 
And  relish  of  their  pleasure  all  to  lust.  330 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROUR.     41 

But  the  mus©,  eagle  pinion'd,  has  in  view 
A  quarry  more  important  still  than  you ; 
Down,  down  the  wind  she  swims,  and  sails  away, 
Now  stoops  upon  it,  and  now  grasps  the  prey. 

Petronius !  all  the  muses  weep  for  thee ;  335 

But  ev'ry  tear  shall  scald  thy  memory  ; 
The  graces  too,  while  Virtue  at  their  shrine, 
Lay  bleeding  under  that  soft  hand  of  thine, 
Felt  each  a  mortal  stab  in  her  own  breast, 
Abhorr'd  the  sacrifice,  and  curs'd  the  priest.  340 

Thou  polish'd  and  high  finish'd  foe  to  truth, 
Graybeard  corrupter  of  our  list'ning  youth. 
To  purgre  and  skim  away  the  filth  of  vice. 
That  so  refin'd  it  might  the  more  entice. 
Then  pour  it  on  the  morals  of  thy  son  ;  345 

To  taint  his  heart,  was  worthy  of  thine  own  ! 
Now,  while  the  poison  a^  high  life  pervades, 
Write,  if  thou  canst,  one  letter  from  the  shades. 
One,  and  one  only,  charg'd  with  deep  regret, 
That  thy  worst  part,  thy  principles,  live  yet ;  350 

One  sad  epistle  thence  may  cure  mankind 
Of  the  plague  spread  by  bundles  left  behind. 
•Tis  granted,  and  no  plainer  truth  appears, 
Our  most  important  are  our  earliest  years ; 
The  Mind,  impressible  and  soft,  with  ease  355 

Imbibes  and  copies  what  she  hears  and  sees. 
And  through  life's  labyrinth  holds  fast  the  clew, 
That  Education  gives  her,  false  or  true, 
Plants  rais'd  with  tenderness  are  seldom  strong ; 
Man's  coltish  disposition  asks  the  thong  ;  360 

And,  without  discipline,  the  fav'rite  child, 
Like  a  neglected  forester,  runs  wild. 
But  we,  as  if  good  qualities  would  grow 
Spontaneous,  take  but  little  pains  to  sow ; 
We  give  some  Latin,  and  a  smatch  of  Greek ;  961 

Teach  him  to  fence,  and  figure  twice  a  week : 
And  having  done,  we  think  the  best  wo  can, 
Praise  his  proficiency,  and  dub  him  oxaa. 


42    THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROUR. 

From  school  to  Cam  or  Isis,  and  thence  home  ; 
And  thence  with  all  convenient  speed  to  Rome,      370 
With  rev'rend  tutor  clad  in  habit  lay, 
To  tease  for  cash,  and  quarrel  with  all  day ; 
With  memorandum  book  for  ev'ry  town. 
And  ev'ry  post,  and  where  the  chaise  broke  down.,  ^ 
His  stock,  a  few  French  phrases  got  by  heart,  3QV 

With  much  to  learn,  but  nothing  to  impart : 
The  youth,  obedient  to  his  sire's  commands, 
Sets  off  a  wanderer  into  foreign  lands. 
Surpris'd  at  all  they  meet,  the  gosling  pair, 
With  awkward  gait,  stretch'd  neck,  am  silly  stare, 
Discover  huge  cathedrals  built  with  stone,  381 

And  steeples  tow'ring  high  much  like  our  own ; 
But  show  peculiar  light  by  many  a  grin 
At  popish  practices  observ'd  within. 

Ere  long  some  bowing,  smirking,  smart  abb6        385 
Remarks  two  loit'rers,  that  have  lost  their  way  j 
And  being  always  prim'd  with  politesse 
For  men  of  their  appearance  and  address, 
With  much  compassion  undertakes  the  task, 
To  tell  them  more  than  they  have  wit  to  ask ;  390 

Points  to  inscriptions  wheresoe'er  they  tread, 
Such  as,  when  legible,  were  never  read, 
But,  being  canker'd  now  and  half  worn  out, 
Craze  antiquarian  brains  with  endless  doubt ; 
Some  headless  hero,  or  some  Caesar  shows —  395 

Defective  only  in  his  Roman  nose  ; 
Exhibits  elevations,  drawings,  plans. 
Models  of  Herculanean  pots  and  pans ; 
And  sells  them  medals,  which,  if  neither  rare  > 

Nor  ancient,  will  be  so,  preserv'd  with  care.  400 

Strange  the  recital !  from  whatever  cause 
His  great  improvement  and  new  light  he  draws, 
The  squire,  once  bashful,  is  shamefac'd  no  more, 
But  teems  with  pow'rs  he  never  felt  before  : 
Whether  incrcas'd  momentum,  and  th«  force  405 

With  which  from  clime  to  clime  he  sped  his  course, 


J 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROUR.      43 

As  axles  sometimes  kindle  as  they  go,) 

Chaf 'd  him,  and  brought  dull  nature  to  a  glow  ; 

Or  whether  clearer  skies  and  softer  air, 

Tliat  make  Italian  flow'rs  so  sweet  and  fair,  410 

Fresh'ning  his  lazy  spirits  as  he  ran, 

Unfolded  genially  and  spread  the  man : 

Returning  he  proclaims  by  many  a  grace. 

By  shrugs  and  strange  contortionsof  his  face, 

How  much  a  dunce,  that  has  been  sent  to  roam,      415 

Excels  a  dunce,  that  has  been  kept  at  home. 

Accomplishments  have  taken  virtue's  place. 
And  wisdom  falls  before  exteriour  grace  : 
Wg  slight  the  precious  kernel  of  the  stone. 
And  toil  to  polish  its  rough  coat  alone.  420 

A  just  deportment,  manners  grac'd  with  ease. 
Elegant  phrase,  and  figure  form'd  to  please. 
Are  qualities  that  seem  to  comprehend 
Whatever  parents,  guardians,  schools,  intend ; 
Hence  an  unfurnish'd  and  a  listless  mind,  425 

Though  busy,  trifling  ;  empty,  though  refin'd ; 
Hence  all  that  interferes,  and  dares  to  clash 
With  indolence  and  luxury,  is  trash : 
While  learning,  once  the  man's  exclusive  pride, 
Seems  verging  fast  towards  the  female  side.  430 

Learning  itself,  receiv'd  into  a  mind 
By  nature  weak,  or  viciously  inclin'd. 
Serves  but  to  lead  philosophers  astray, 
Where  children  would  with  ease  discern  the  way. 
And  of  all  arts  sagacious  dupes  invent,  435 

To  cheat  themselves  and  gain  the  world's  assent, 
The  worst  is — Scripture  warp'd  from  its  intent 

The  carriage  bowls  along,  and  all  are  pleas'd 
If  Tom  be  sober,  and  the  wheels  well  greas'd  ; 
But  if  the  rogue  have  gone  a  cup  too  far,  440 

Left  out  his  linchpin  or  forgot  his  tar. 
It  suffers  interruption  and  delay. 
And  meets  with  hind'rance  in  the  Bmoothest  way 
When  some  hypothesis  absurd  and  vain 


44  THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROUR. 

Has  fill'd  with  all  its  fumes  a  critick's  brain,  445 

The  text,  that  sorts  not  with  liis  darling  whim, 

Though  plain  to  others,  is  obscure  to  him. 

The  will  made  subject  to  a  lawless  force. 

All  is  irregular  and  out  of  course ; 

And  judgment  drunk,  and  brib'd  to  lose  his  way,      450 

Winks  hard,  and  talks  of  darkness  at  noonday. 

A  critick  on  the  sacred  book  should  bo 
Candid  and  learn'd,  dispassionate  and  freo  ; 
Free  from  the  wayward  bias  bigots  feel. 
From  fancy's  influence,  and  intemperate  zeal ;  455 

But  above  all,  (or  let  the  wretch  refrain, 
Nor  touch  the  page  he  cannot  but  profane,) 
Free  from  the  domineering  power  of  lust ; 
A  lewd  interpreter  is  never  just. 

How  shall  I  speak  thee,  or  thy  power  address,      460 
Thou  god  of  our  idolatry,  the  press  ? 
By  thee,  reUgion,  liberty,  and  laws. 
Exert  their  influence,  and  advance  their  cause  ; 
By  thee  worse  plagues  than  Pharaoh's  land  befell, 
Diffus'd,  make  earth  the  vestibule  of  Hell ;  465 

Thou  fountain,  at  which  drink  the  good  and  wise  j 
Thou  ever-bubbling  spring  of  endless  lies  ; 
Like  Eden's  dread  probationary  tree, 
Knowledge  of  good  and  evil  is  from  thee. 

No  wild  enthusiast  ever  yet  could  rest,  470 

Till  half  mankind  were  like  himself  possess'd. 
Philosophers,  who  darken  and  put  out 
Eternal  truth  by  everlasting  doubt ; 
Cliurch  quacks,  with  passions  under  no  command. 
Who  fill  the  world  with  doctrines  contraband,  475 

Discov'rers  of  they  know  not  what,  confin'd 
Within  no  bounds — the  blind  that  lead  the  blind ; 
To  streams  of  popular  opinion  drawn. 
Deposit  in  those  shallows  all  their  spawn. 
The  wriggling  fry  soon  fill  the  creeks  around,  480 

Pois'ning  the  v/aters  where  their  swarms  abound 
Scorn'd  by  the  nobler  tenants  of  the  flood, 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROUR.     45 

Minnows  and  gudgeons  gorge  the  unwholesome  food. 

The  propagated  myriads  spread  so  fast, 

E'en  Lewenhoeck  himself  would  stand  aghast,  485 

Employ *d  to  calculate  th*  enormous  sum. 

And  own  his  crab-computing  powers  o'ercomd. 

Is  this  hyperbole  ?     The  world  well  known, 

Your  sober  thoughts  will  hardly  find  it  one. 

Fresh  confidence  the  speculatist  takes  «         490 

From  every  hair-brain'd  proselyte  he  makes : 
And  therefore  prints.     Himself  but  half  deceiv'd, 
Till  others  have  the  soothing  tale  belie v*d. 
Hence  comment  after  comment,  spun  as  fine 
As^lggi,ted  spiders  draw  the  flimsy  line.  495 

Hence  the  same  word,  that  bids  our  lusts  obey, 
Is  misapplied  to  sanctify  their  sway. 
If  stubborn  Greek  refuse  to  be  his  friend, 
Hebrew  or  Syriack  shall  be  forc'd  to  bend.  _ 
If  languages  and  copies  all  cry.  No —  500 

Somebody  prov'd  it  centuries  ago. 
Like  trout  pursued,  the  eritick  in  despair 
Darts  to  the  mud,  and  finds  his  safety  there. 
Women,  whom  custom  has  forbid  to  fly 
The  scholar's  pitch,  (the  scholar  best  knows  why,)  505 
With  all  the  simple  and  unletter'd  poor, 
Admire  his  learning,  and  almost  adore. 
Whoever  errs,  the  priest  can  ne'er  be  wrong, 
With  such  fine  words  familiar  to  his  tongue. 

Ye  ladies  !  (for  indifi*'rent  in  your  cause,  510 

I  should  deserve  to  forfeit  all  applause,) 
Whatever  shocks  or  gives  the  least  ofience 
To  virtue,  delicacy,  truth,  or  sense 
(Try  the  criterion,  'tis  a  faithful  guide,) 
Nor  has,  nor  can  have.  Scripture  on  its  side.  515 

Nono  but  an  author  knows  an  author's  cares, 
Or  Fancy's  fondness  for  the  child  she  bears. 
Committed  once  into  the  publick  arms. 
The  baby  seems  to  smile  with  added  charms. 
Like  something  precious  ventur'd  far  from  shoro,    590 


46  THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROUR. 

'Tis  valued  for  the  danger's  sake  the  more. 

He  views  it  with  complacency  supremo, 

Solicits  kind  attention  to  his  dream  ; 

And  daily  more  enamour'd  of  the  cheat 

Kneels,  and  asks  Heav'n  to  bless  the  dear  deceit.      525 

So  one,  whose  story  serves  at  least  to  show 

Men  lov'd  their  own  productions  long  ago, 

Woo'd  an  unfeeling  statue  for  his  wife. 

Nor  rested  till  the  gods  had  giv'n  it  life. 

If  some  mere  driv'Uer  suck  the  sugar'd  fib,  530 

One  that  still  needs  his  leading  string  and  bib, 

And  praise  his  genius,  he  is  soon  repaid 

In  praise  applied  to  the  same  part — his  head  • 

For  'tis  a  rule,  that  holds  for  ever  true, 

Grant  me  discernment,  and  I  grant  it  you.  535 

Patient  of  contradiction  as  a  child, 
Affable,  humble,  diffident,  and  mild ; 
Such  was  Sir  Isaac,  and  such  Boyle  and  Locke : 
Your  blund'rer  is  as  sturdy  as  a  rock 
The  creature  is  so  sure  to  kick  and  bite,  540 

A  muleteer's  the  man  to  set  him  right. 
First  Appetite  enlists  him  Truth's  sworn  foe, 
Then  obstinate  Self-will  confirms  him  so. 
Tell  him  he  wanders  ;  that  his  errour  leads 
To  fatal  ills  ;  that,  tho'  the  path  he  treads  545 

Be  flow'ry,  and  he  see  no  cause  of  fear. 
Death  and  the  pains  of  Hell  attend  !iim  there  ; 
In  vain  :  the  slave  of  arrogance  and  pride, 
He  has  no  hearing  on  the  prudent  side. 
His  still-refuted  quirks  he  still  repeats ;  650 

New-rais'd  objections  with  nev/  quibbles  meets ; 
Till,  sinking  in  the  quicksand  he  defends, 
He  dies  disputing,  and  the  contest  ends — 
But  not  the  mischiefs  ;  they,  still  left  behind, 
Like  thistle  seeds,  are  sown  by  every  wind.  555 

Thus  men  go  wrong  with  an  ingenious  skill ; 
Bend  the  straight  rule  to  their  own  crooked  will ; 
And  with  a  clear  and  shining  lamp  supphed. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROUR.      47 

First  put  it  out,  then  take  it  for  a  guide. 

Halting  on  crutches  of  unequal  size,  560 

One  leg  by  truth  supported,  one  by  lies  ; 

They  sidle  to  the  goal  with  awkward  pacoi 

Secure  of  nothing — ^but  to  lose  the  race. 

Faults  in  the  life  breed  errours  in  the  brain^ 
And  these  reciprocally  those  again.  565 

The  mind  and  conduct  mutually  imprint 
And  stamp  theit  imago  in  each  other*s  mint ; 
Each  sire,  and  dam,  of  an  infernal  race, 
Begetting  and  conceiving  all  that's  base. 

None  sends  his  arrow  to  the  mark  in  view,  670 

Whose  hand  is  feeble,  or  his  aim  untrue. 
For  tho',  ere  yet  the  shaft  is  on  the  wing, 
Or  when  it  first  forsakes  th'  elastick  string. 
It  err  but  little  from  th'  intended  line. 
It  falls  at  last  far  wide  of  his  design ;  575 

So  he,  who  seeks  a  mansion  in  the  sky. 
Must  watch  his  purpose  with  a  steadfast  eye . 
That  prize  belongs  to  none  but  the  sincere, 
The  least  obliquity  is  fatal  here. 

With  caution  taste  the  sweet  Circean  cup :  580 

He  that  sips  often  at  last  drinks  it  up. 
Habits  are  soon  assum'd  ;  but  when  we  strive 
To  strip  them  off,  'tis  being  flay'd  alive. 
Call'd  to  the  temple  of  impure  delight, 
Ho  that  abstains,  and  he  alone,  does  right.  585 

If  a  wish  wander  that  way,  call  it  home  ;  ^  ' 

He  cannot  long  be  safe  whose  wishes  roam.'''^^3  r"»H4 
But,  if  you  pass  the  threshold,  you  are  caught ; 
Die  then,  if  pow'r  Almighty  save  you  not. 
There  hard'iiing  by  degrees,  till  double  steel'd,         590 
Take  leave  of  Nature's  God,  and  God  reveal'd; 
Then  laugh  at  all  you  trembled  at  before  ; 
And,  joining  the  free  thinkers'  brutal  roar, 
Swallow  the  two  grand  nostrums  they  dispense- 
That  Scripture  lies,  and  blasphemy  is  sense.  595 


48  THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROUR. 

If  clemency  revolted  by  abuse 

Be  damnable,  then  danm'd  without  excuse. 

Some  dream  that  they  can  silence  when  they  will, 
The  storm  of  passion,  and  say,  "  Peace^  he  still  ;'* 
But,  "  Thus  far  and  no  farther  "  when  address'd     600 
To  the  wild  wave,  or  wilder  human  breast, 
Implies  authority  th?Lt  never  can, 
That  never  ought  to  be  the  lot  of  man. 

But,  muse,  forbear ;  long  flights  forebode  a  fall ; 
Strike  on  the  deep-ton'd  chord  the  sum  of  all.  605 

Hear  the  just  law — the  judgment  of  the  skies ! 
He  that  hates  truth  shall  be  the  diipe  of  lies : 
And  he  that  will  be  cheated  to  the  last, 
Delusions  strong  as  Hell  shall  bind  him  fast. 
But  if  the  wand'rer  his  mistake  discern,  610 

Judge  his  own  ways  and  sigh  for  a  return, 
Be  wilder 'd  once,  must  he  bewail  his  loss 
Tor  ever  and  for  ever  ?    No — the  cross  ! 
There,  and  there  only,  (though  the  deist  rave, 
And  atheist,  if  earth  bear  so  base  a  slave ;)    "  615 

There,  and  there  only,  is  the  power  to  save. 
There  no  delusive  hope  invites  despair ; 
No  mock'ry  meets  you,  no  deception  there. 
The  spells  and  charms,  that  blinded  you  before, 
All  vanish  there,  and  fascinate  no  more.  620 

I  am  no  preacher,  let  this  hint  suffice — 
The  cross  once  seen  is  death  to  ev'ry  Vice ; 
Else  he  that  hung  there,  suffer'd  all  his  pain, 
Bled,  groaned,  and  agoniz'd,  and  died  in  vain. 


TRUTH. 


Pensantur  triutin^— -Hor.  Lib.  II.  Epist.  I 

MAN,  on  the  dubious  waves  of  errour  toss'd, 
His  ship  half  founder'd,  and  his  compass  lost, 
Sees  far  as  human  opticks  may  command, 
A  sleeping  fog,  and  fancies  it  dry  land  ! 
Spreads  all  his  canvass,  ev'ry  sinew  plies  j  5 

Pants  fbr't,  aims  at  it,  enters  it,  and  dies  ' 
Then  farewell  all  self-satisfying  schemes, 
His  well-buire'systems,  philosophick  dreams 
Deceitful  views  of  future  bliss,  farewell ! 
He  reads  his  sentence  at  the  flames  of  Hell.  10 

Hard  lot  of  man — to  toil  for  the  revard 
Of  virtue,  and  yet  lose  it !  Wherefore  hard  ? — 
He  that  would  win  the  race  must  guide  his  horse 
Obedient  to  the  customs  of  the  course  ; 
Else,  tho'  unequall'd  to  the  goal  he  flies,  15 

A  meaner  than  himself  shall  gain  the  prize. 
Grace  leads  the  right  way ;  if  you  choose  the  wrong, 
Take  it  and  perish  ;  but  restrain  your  tongue  ; 
Charge  not  with  light  sufficient,  and  left  free, 
Your  wilful  suicide  on  God's  decree.  20 

Oh  how  unlike  the  complex  works  of  man, 
HeavVs  easy,  artless,  unencumber'd  plan  ! 
No  meretricious  graces  to  beguile. 
No  clustering  ornaments  to  clog  the  pile  ; 
From  ostentation  as  from  weakness  free,  25 

It  stands  like  the  cerulean  arch  we  see, 
Majestick  in  its  own  sirnphcity. 

Vol.  I.  5 


50  TRUTH. 

Inscrib'd  above  the  portal,  from  afar 

Conspicuous  as  the  brightness  of  a  star, 

Legible  only  by  the  light  tliey  give,  30 

Stand  the  soul-quick'ning  words — believe  and  live. 

Too  many,  shock'd  at  what  should  charm  them  most, 

Despise  the  plain  direction,  and  are  lost. 

Heav'n  on  such  terms !  (they  cry  with  proud  disdain,) 

Incredible,  impossible,  and  vain ! —  35 

Rebel,  because  'tis  easy  to  obey : 

And  scorn,  for  its  own  sake,  the  gracious  way. 

These  are  the  sober,  in  whose  cooler  brains 

Some  thought  of  immortality  remains; 

The  rest  too  busy  or  too  gay  to  wait  40 

On  the  sad  theme,  their  everlasting  state, 

Sport  for  a  day,  and  perish  in  a  night, 

The  foam  upon  the  waters  not  so  light. 

Who  judg'd  the  pharisee  ?     What  odious  cause 
Exposed  him  to  the  vengeance  of  the  laws  ?  4t 

Had  he  seduc'd  a  virgin,  wrong 'd  a  friend, 
Or  stabb'd  a  man  to  serve  some  private  end  ? 
Was  blasphemy  his  sin  ?  Or  did  he  stray 
From  the  strict  duties  of  the  sacred  day  ? 
Sit  long  and  late  at  the  carousing  board  ?  ^ 

(Such  were  the  sins  with  which  he  charged  his  Lord.) 
No — the  man's  morals  were  exact,  what  then  ? 
'Twas  his  ambition  to  be  seen  of  men  ; 
His  virtues  were  his  pride  ;  and  that  one  vice 
Made  all  his  virtues  gewgaws  of  no  price  j  5i» 

He  wore  them  as  fine  trappings  for  a  show, 
A  praying,  synagogue-frequenting  beau. 
The  self-applauding  bird,  the  peacock,  see 
Mark  what  a  sumptuous  pharisee  is  he  ! 
Meridian  sunbeams  tempt  him  to  unfold  (^ 

His  radiant  glories,  azure,  green,  and  gold ; 
He  treads  as  if  some  solemn  musick  near, 
His  measur'd  step  were  govern'd  by  his  ear  j 
And  seems  to  say — ^Ye  meaner  fowl,  give  place, 
I  am  all  splendour,  dignity,  and  grace  !  65 


TRUTH.  61 

Not  so  the  pheasant  on  his  charms  presumes, 
Though  he  too  has  a  glory  in  his  plumes, 
He,  christian-like,  retreats  with  modest  mion 
To  the  close  copse,  or  far  sequester'd  green,  \ 

And  shines  without  desiring  to  be  seen.  j  70 

The  plea  of  works,  as  arrogant  and  vain,  I 

Heav'n  turns  from  with  abhorrence  and  disdain ;     • 
Not  more  affronted  by  avow'd  neglect. 
Than  by  the  mere  dissembler's  feign'd  respect. 
What  is  all  righteousness  that  men  devise  ?  75 

What — ^but  a  sordid  bargain  for  the  skies  ? 
But  Christ  as  soon  would  abdicate  his  own. 
As  stoop  from  Heav'n  to  sell  the  proud  a  throne- 

His  dwelling  a  recess  in  some  rude  rock, 
Book,  beads,  and  maple  dish,  liis  meagre  stock .  80 

In  shirt  of  hair  and  weeds  of  canvass  dress'd, 
Girt  with  a  bell  rope  that  the  pope  has  bless'd ; 
Adust  with  stripes  told  out  for  ev'ry  crime, 
And  sore  tormented  long  before  his  time  ; 
His  pray'r  preferr'd  to  saints  that  cannot  aid ;  85 

His  praise  postpon'd,  and  never  to  be  paid ', 
See  the  sage  hermit,  by  mankind  admir'd, 
With  all  that  bigotry  adopts  inspir'd. 
Wearing  out  life  in  his  religious  whim, 
Till  his  religious  whimsy  wears  out  him.  90 

His  works,  his  abstinence,  his  zeal  allow'd, 
You  think  him  humble — God  accounts  him  proud ; 
High  in  demand,  though  lowly  in  pretence, 
Of  all  his  conduct  this  the  genuine  sense — 
My  penitential  stripes,  my  streaming  blood,  95 

Have  purchas'd  Heav'n,  and  prov'd  my  title  good. 
Turn  eastward  now,  and  Fancy  shall  apply 
To  your  weak  sight  her  telescopick  eye. 
The  bramin  kindles  on  his  own  bare  head 
The  sacred  fire,  self- torturing  his  trade  ;  100 

His  voluntary  pains,  severe  and  long. 
Would  give  a  barb'rous  air  to  British  song ; 
No  grand  inquisitor  oould  worse  invent, 


52  TRUTS  ' 

Than  h©  cohtrivcis  to  suiFer,  well  content. 

Which  is  the  saintlier  worthy  of  the  two  ?  105 

Past  all  dispute,  yon  anchorite,  say  you. 
Your  sentence  and  mine  differ.    What  s  a  name  ^ 
1  say  the  bramin  has  the  fairer  claim. 
If  suff 'rings.  Scripture  no  where  recommends, 
Devi  /d  by  self  to  answer  selfish  ends,  110 

Give  saintship,  then  all  Europe  must  agree 
Ten  starving  hermits  suffer  less  than  he. 

The  truth,  is,  (if  the  truth  may  suit  your  eat 
And  prejudice  have  left  a  passage  clear,) 
Pride  has  attain'd  its  most  luxuriant  growth,  115 

And  poison 'd  ev'ry  virtue  in  them  both. 
Pride  may  be  pamper'd  while  the  flesh  grows  lean ; 
Humility  may  clothe  an  English  dean  ; 
That  grace  was  Cowper's — his,  confess'd  by  all — 
Though  plac'd  in  golden  Durham's  second  stall.        120 
Not  all  the  plenty  of  a  bishop's  board, 
His  palace,  and  his  lacqueys,  and  "  My  lord," 
More  nourish  pride,  that  condescending  vice, 
Than  abstinence,  and  beggary,  and  lice  ; 
It  thrives  in  mis'ry,  and  abundant  grows  ;  125 

In  mis'ry  fools  upon  themselves  impose. 

But  why  before  us  protestants  produce 
An  Indian  mystick,  or  a  French  recluse  ? 
Their  sin  is  plain  ;  but  what  have  we  to  fear, 
Reform'd  and  well  instructed  ?  You  shall  hear.        130 

Yon  ancient  prude,  whose  wither 'd  features  show 
She  might  be  young  some  forty  years  ago, 
Her  elbows  pinion'd  close  upon  her  liips. 
Her  head  erect,  her  fan  upon  her  lips. 
Her  eye-brows  arch*d,  her  eyes  both  gone  astray    135 
To  watch  yon  am'rous  couple  in  their  play, 
With  bony  and  unkerchierd  neck  defies 
The  rude  inclemency  of  wintry  skies, 
And  sails  with  lappet  head  and  mincing  airs. 
Duly  at  clink  of  bell  to  morning  pray'rs.  140 

To  thrift  and  parsimony  much  inclin'd, 


TRUTH.  53 

She  yet  allows  herself  that  boy  behind ; 

The  shiv'ring  urchin,  bending  as  he  goes, 

With  slipshod  heels,  and  dewdrop  at  his  nose  ; 

His  predecessor's  coat  advanced  to  wear,  145 

Which  future  pages  yet  are  doom'd  to  share, 

Carries  her  Bible  tuck'd  beneath  his  arm, 

And  hides  his  hands  to  keep  his  fingers  warm. 

She  half  an  angel  in  her  own  account, 
Doubts  not  hereafter  with  the  saints  to  mount.        150 
Though  not  a  grace  appears  on  strictest  search, 
But  that  she  fasts,  and,  eiem,  goes  to  church. 
Conscious  of  age  she  recollects  her  youth. 
And  tells,  not  always,  with  an  eye  to  truth. 
Who  spann'd  her  waist,  and  who,  where'er  he  caire, 
Scrawl'd  upon  glass  Miss  Bridget's  lovely  name  ;     156 
Who  stole  her  slipper,  fill'd  it  with  tokay, 
And  drank  the  little  bumper  ev'ry  day. 
Of  temper  as  envenom'd  as  an  asp, 
Censorious,  and  her  ev'ry  word  a  wasp  ;  160 

In  faithful  mem'ry  she  records  the  crimes, 
Or  real  or  fictitious  of  the  times ; 
Laughs  at  the  reputations  she  has  torn, 
And  holds  them  dangling  at  arm's  length  in  scora. 

Such  are  the  fruits  of  sanctimonious  pride,  165 

Of  malice  fed  while  flesh  is  mortified  :         ^ 
Take,  Madam,  the  reward  of  all  your  pray*rs, 
Where  hermits  and  where  bramins  meet  with  theurs  , 
Your  portion  is  with  them. — Nay,  never  frown, 
But  if  you  please,  some  fathoms  lower  down.  170 

Artist,  attend — ^your  brushes  and  your  paint — 
Produce  them — take  a  chair — ^now  draw  a  saint. 
Oh  sorrowful  and  sad  !  the  streaming  tears 
Channel  her  cheeks — a  Niobe  appears  ! 
Is  this  a  saint  f     Throw  tints  and  all  away —  175 

True  Piety  is  cheerful  as  the  day. 
Will  weep  indeed  and  heave  a  pitying  groan 
For  others'  woes,  but  smiles  upon  her  own. 

What  purpose  has  the  King  of  saints  in  view  ? 
5* 


64  TRUTH. 

Why  falls  the  Gospel  like  a  gracious  dew  ?  180 

To  call  up  plenty  from  the  teeming  earth, 

Or  curse  the  desert  with  a  tenfold  dearth  ? 

Is  it  that  Adam's  offspring  may  be  sav'd 

From  servile  fear,  or  be  the  more  enslav'd  ? 

To  loose  the  links  that  gall'd  mankind  before,  185 

Or  bind  them  faster  on,  and  add  still  more  ? 

The  freeborn  Christian  has  no  chains  to  prove, 

Or,  if  a  chain,  the  golden  one  of  love  ; 

No  fear  attends  to  quench  liis  glowing  fires, 

Wliat  fear  he  feels  his  gratitude  inspires.  190 

Shall  he  for  such  deliv'rance  freely  wrought, 

Recompense  ill  ?    He  trembles  at  the  thought. 

His  master's  interest  and  his  own  combin'd, 

Prompt  ev'ry  movement  of  his  heart  and  mind  ; 

Thought,  word,  and  deed,  his  liberty  evince,  195 

His  freedom  is  the  freedom  of  a  prince. 

Man's  obligations  infinite,  of  course 
His  life  should  prove  that  he  perceives  their  force  ; 
His  utmost  he  can  render  is  but  small — 
The  principle  and  motive  all  in  all.  206 

You  have  two  servants — Tom,  an  arch,  sly  rogue, 
From  top  to  toe  the  Geta  now  in  vogue, 
Genteel  in  figure,  easy  in  address, 
Moves  without  noise,  and  swift  as  an  express. 
Reports  a  niessage  with  a  pleasing  grace,  205 

Expert  in  all  the  duties  of  his  place  ; 
Say,  on  what  hinge  does  his  obedience  move  ^ 
Has  he  a  world  of  gratitude  and  love  ? 
No,  not  a  spark — 'tis  all  mere  sharper's  piay 
He  likes  your  house,  your  housemaid,  and  your  pay ; 
Reduce  his  wages,  or  get  rid  of  her,  211 

Tom  quits  you,  with — ^Your  most  obedient.  Sir. 

The  dinner  serv'd,  Charles  takes  his  usual  stand, 
Watches  your  eye,  anticipates  command  ; 
Sighs,  if  perhaps  your  appetite  should  fail ,  215 

And,  if  he  but  suspects  a  frown,  turns  pale  ; 
Consults  all  day  your  int'rest  and  your  ease, 


TRUTH.  tt 

Richly  rewarded  if  he  can  but  please  ; 

And,  proud  to  make  his  firm  attachment  known, 

To  save  your  life,  would  nobly  risk  his  own.  220 

Now  which  stands  highest  in  your  serious  thought  ? 
Charles,  without  doubt,  say  you — and  so  he  ought ; 
One  act^  that  from  a  thankful  heart  proceeds, 
Excels  ten  thousand  mercenary  deeds. 
Thus  Heav'n  approves  as  honest  and  sincere,  225 

The  work  of  generous  love,  and  filial  fear ; 
But  with  averted  eyes  th'  omniscient  Judg6 
Scorns  the  base  hireling,  and  the  slavish  drudge. 
Where  dwell  these  matchless  saints  ? — old  Curio  cries : 
Ev'n  at  your  side,  Sir,  and  before  your  eyes,  230 

The  favour 'd  few — th'  enthusiasts  you  despise. 
And  pleas'd  at  heart,  because  on  holy  ground 
Sometimes  a  canting  hypocrite  is  found, 
Reproach  a  people  with  a  single  fall. 
And  cast  his  filthy  garment  at  them  all.  235 

Attend  ! — an  apt  similitude  shall  show 
"Whence  springs  the  conduct  that  offends  you  so. 

See  where  it  smokes  along  the  sounding  pl^un, 
Blown  all  aslant,  a  driving,  dashing  rain, 
Peal  upon  peal  redoubling  all  around,  240 

Shakes  it  again  and  faster  to  the  ground  : 
Now  flashing  wide,  now  glancing  as  in  play. 
Swift  beyond  thought  the  lightnings  dart  away. 
Ere  yet  it  came  the  trav'Uer  urg'd  his  steed. 
And  hurried,  but  with  unsuccessfiil  speed ;  245 

Now  drench'd  throughout,  and  hopeless  of  his  case. 
He  drops  the  rein,  and  leaves  him  to  his  pace. 
Suppose,  unlook*d  for  in  a  scene  so  rude. 
Long  hid  by  interposing  hill  or  wood, 
Some  mansion,  neat  and  elegantly  dress'd,  250 

By  some  kind  hospitable  heart  possess'd, 
Offer  him  warmth,  security,  and  rest  ; 
Think  with  what  pleasure,  safe,  and  at  his  ease 
He  hears  the  tempest  howling  in  the  trees ; 
What  glowing  thanks  his  lips  and  heart  employ       255 


66  TRUTH. 

Wliile  danger  past  is  turn'd  to  present  joy. 
So  fares  it  with  the  sinner,  when  he  feels 
A  growing  dread  of  vengeance  at  his  heels; 
.^  His  conscience,  like  a  glassy  lalte  before, 
i  Lash'd  into  foaming  v/aves  begins  to  roar  ;  260 

I  The  law  grown  clamorous,  though  silent  long. 
Arraigns  him, — charges  him  with  ev'ry  wrong- 
Asserts  the  rights  of  his  offended  Lord, 
And  death  or  restitution  is  the  word ; 
The  last  impossible — he  fears  the  first,  265 

And,  having  well  deserv'd,  expects  the  worst. 
Then  welcome  refuge,  and  a  peaceful  home  ; 
Oh  for  a  shelter  from  the  wrath  to  come ! 
{  Crush  me,  ye  rocks;  ye  falling  mountains,  hide 
I  Or  bury  me  in  ocean's  angry  tide —  270 

I  The  scrutiny  of  those  all-seeing  eyes 
I  dare  not — And  you  need  not,  God  replies  : 
The  remedy  you  want  I  freely  give ; 
Tiie  book  shall  teach  you — read,  beheve,  and  live. 
'Tis  done — the  raging  storm  is  heard  no  more,  275 

Mercy  receives  him  on  her  peaceful  shore ; 
And  justice,  guardian  of  the  dread  command, 
Drops  the  red  vengeance  from  his  willing  hand. 
A  soul  redeem'd  demands  a  life  of  praise  ; 
Hence  the  complexion  of  his  future  days,  280 

Hence  a  demeanour  holy  and  unspeck'd, 
And  the  world's  hatred,  as  its  sure  effect. 

Some  lead  a  life  unblamable  and  just, 
Their  own  dear  virtue  their  unshaken  trust : 
They  never  sin — or  if,  (as  all  offend,)  285 

Some  trivial  slips  their  daily  walk  attend. 
The  poor  are  near  at  hand,  the  charge  is  small, 
A  slight  gratuity  atones  for  all. 
For  though  the  pope  has  lost  his  int'rest  here, 
And  pardons  are  not  sold  as  once  they  were,  290 

No  papist  more  desirous  to  compoimd, 
Than  some  grave  siimers  upon  English  ground, 
That  plea  refuted,  other  quirks  they  seek — 


TRUTS.  57 

Mercy  is  infinite,  and  man  is  weak ; 

The  future  shall  obliterate  the  past,  295 

And  Heav'n  no  doubt  shall  be  their  home  at  last. 

Come  then — a  still  small  whisper  in  your  ear — 
He  has  no  hope  who  never  had  a  fear  ; 
And  he  that  never  doubted  of  his  state. 
He  may  perpaps — ^perhaps  he  may — too  late.  300 

The  path  to  bliss  abounds  with  many  a  snare  ; 
Learning  is  one,  and  wit,  however  rare. 
The  Frenchman,  first  in  literary  fame, 
(Mention  him  if  you  please.  Voltaire  ?-^l!h.e  same,) 
With  spirit,  genius,  eloquence,  supplied,  305 

Liv'd  long,  wrote  much,  laugh'd  heartily,  and  died  ; 
The  Scripture  was  his  jest  book,  whence  he  drew 
Bon  mots  to  gall  the  Christian  and  the  Jew ; 
An  infidel  in  health,  but  what  when  sick  ? 
Oh — ^then  a  text  would  touch  him  at  the  quick :        310 
View  him  at  Paris  in  his  last  career. 
Surrounding  throngs  the  demigod  revere, 
Exalted  on  his  pedestal  of  pride. 
And  fiim'd  with  frankincense  on  ev'ry  side. 
He  begs  their  flattery  with  his  latest  breath,  315 

And  sraother'd  in't  at  last,  is  prais'd  to  death. 

Yon  cottager,  who  weaves  at  her  own  door, 
Pillow  and  bobbins  all  her  little  store  ; 
Content,  though  mean,  and  cheerful  if  not  gay 
Shuffling  her  threads  about  the  livelong  day,  330 

Just  earns  a  scanty  pittance,  and  at  night 
Lies  down  secure,  her  heart  and  pocket  light ; 
She,  for  her  humble  sphere  by  nat  le  fit, 
Has  little  understanding,  and  no  wit. 
Receives  no  praise  ;  but  though  hor  lot  be  such,      325 
(Toilsome  and  indigent,)  she  renders  much : 
Just  knows,  and  knows  no  more,  her  Bible  true — 
A  truth  the  brilliant  Frenchman  never  knew  ; 
And  in  that  charter  reads  with  sparkling  eyes 
Her  title  to  a  treasure  in  the  skies.  330 

O  happy  peasant !  Oh  unhappy  bard  ! 


58  TRUTH. 

His  the  mere  tinsel,  hers  the  rich  reward  ; 

He  prais'd  perhaps  for  ages  yet  to  come, 

She  never  heard  of  half  a  mile  from  homo  : 

He,  lost  in  errours,  his  vain  heart  prefers,  335 

She,  safe  in  the  simplicity  of  hers. 

Not  many  wise,  rich,  noble,  or  profound 
In  science,  win  one  inch  of  heavenly  ground. 
And  is  it  not  a  mortifying  thought 
Tiie  poor  should  gain  it,  and  the  rich  should  rot.     340 
No, — the  voluptuaries,  who  ne'er  forget 
One  pleasure  lost,  lose  Heav'n  without  regret ; 
Regret  would  rouse  them,  and  give  birth  to  pray'r, 
Pray'r  would  add  faith,  and  faith  would  fix  them  there. 

Not  that  the  Former  of  us  all,  in  this,  345 

Or  ought  he  does,  is  govern'd  by  caprice  ; 
The  supposition  is  replete  with  sin, 
And  bears  the  brand  of  blasphemy  burn'd  in. 
Not  so — the  silver  trumpet's  heav'nly  call 
Sounds  for  the  poor,  but  sounds  alike  for  all :  350 

Kings  are  invited,  and  would  kings  obey, 
No  slaves  on  earth  more  welcome  were  than  they ; 
But  royalty,  nobility,  and  state, 
Are  such  a  dead  preponderating  weight, 
That  endless  bliss,  (how  strange  soe'er  it  seem,)       355 
In  counterpoise,  flies  up  and  kicks  the  beam. 
'Tis  open,  and  ye  cannot  enter, — why  ? 
Because  ye  will  not,  Conyers  would  reply — 
And  he  says  much  that  many  may  dispute 
And  cavil  at  with  ease,  but  none  refute.  360 

O  bless'd  effbct  of  penury  and  want, 
The  seed  sown  there,  how  vig'rous  is  the  plant ! 
No  soil  like  poverty  for  growth  divine. 
As  leanest  land  supplies  the  richest  wine. 
Earth  gives  too  little,  giving  only  bread,  "365 

To  nourish  pride,  or  turn  the  weakest  head  : 
To  them  the  sounding  jargon  of  the  schools 
Seems  what  it  is — a  cap  and  bells  for  fools : 
The  light  they  walk  by,  kindled  from  above, 


TRUTH.  59 

Shows  them  llie  slvartest  way  to  life  and  love  ;         370 
They,  strangers  to  the  controversial  field, 
Where  deists,  always  foil'd,  yet  scorn  to  yield, 
And  never  check'd  by  what  impedes  the  wise, 
Believe,  rush  forward,  and  possess  the  prize. 
Envy,  yo  great,  the  dull  unletter'd  small :  375 

Ye  have  much  cause  for  envy — ^but  not  all. 
We  boast  some  rich  ones  whom  the  Gospel  sways, 
And  one  who  wears  a  coronet,  and  prays  ', 
Like  gleanings  of  an  olive  tree  they  show 
Here  and  there  one  upon  the  topmost  bough.  380 

How  readily  upon  the  Gospel  plan, 
That  question  has  its  answer — What  is  man  ? 
Sinful' and  weak,  in  ev'ry  sense  a  wretch ; 
An  instrument,  whose  chords,  upon  the  stretch. 
And  strain'd  to  the  last  screw  that  he  can  bear,        385 
Yield  only  discord  in  his  Maker's  ear  : 
Once  the  bless'd  residence  of  truth  divine, 
Glorious  as  Solyma's  interiour  shrine, 
"Where,  in  his  own  oracular  abode. 
Dwelt  visibly  the  light-creating  God :  390 

But  made  long  since  like  Babylon  of  old, 
A  den  of  mischiefs  never  to  be  told  ; 
And  she,  once  mistress  of  the  realms  around. 
Now  scattered  wide,  and  no  where  to  be  found, 
As  soon  shall  rise  and  reascend  the  throne,  395 

By  native  pow'r  and  energy  her  own, 
As  Nature  at  her  own  peculiar  cost, 
Restore  to  man  the  glories  he  has  lost. 
Go — ^bid  the  winter  cease  to  chill  the  year, 
Replace  the  wand'ring  comet  in  his  sphere,  400 

Then  boast,  (but  wait  for  that  unhop'd-for  hour,) 
The  self-restoring  arm  of  human  pow'r. 
But  what  is  man  in  his  own  proud  esteem  ? 
Hear  him — himself  the  poet  and  the  theme : 
A  monarch  cloth'd  with  majesty  and  awe,  405 

His  Mind,  his  kingdom,  and  his  will,  his  law  *       ' 
Grace  in  his  mien,  and  glory  in  his  eyes, 


60  TRUTH. 

Supreme  on  earth,  and  worthy  of  the  skies. 

Strength  in  his  heart,  dominion  in  his  nod, 

And  thunderbolts  excepted,  quite  a  god  !  4  -0 

So  sings  he,  charm'd  with  his  own  mind  and  form, 

The  song  magnificent — the  them^  a  worm ! 

Himself  so  much  the  source  of  his  delight, 

His  Maker  has  no  beauty  in  his  sight. 

See  where  he  sits,  contemplative  and  fix'd,  415 

Pleasure  and  wonder  in  his  features  mix'd ; 

His  passions  tam'd,  and  all  at  his  control, 

How  perfect  the  composure  of  his  soul  I 

Complacency  has  breath'd  a  gentle  gale 

O'er  all  his  thoughts,  and  swell'd  his  easy  sail :        420 

His  books  well  trimm'd  and  in  the  gayest  style 

Like  regimented  coxcombs  rank  and  file, 

Adorn  his  intellects  as  well  as  shelves, 

And  teach  him  notions  splendid  as  themselves : 

The  Bible  only  stands  neglected  there,  425 

Though  that  of  all  most  worthy  of  his  care  ; 

And  like  an  infant,  troublesome  awake, 

Is  left  to  sleep  for  peace  and  quiet  sake. 

What  shall  the  man  deserve  of  human  kind, 
Whose  happy  skill  and  industry  combined  430 

Shall  prove,  (what  argument  could  never  yet,) 
The  Bible  an  imposture  and  a  cheat  ? 
The  praises  of  the  libertine  profess'd. 
The  worst  of  men,  and  curses  of  the  best. 
Where  should  the  living,  weeping  o'er  his  woes ;     435 
The  dying,  trembling  at  the  awful  close  ; 
Where  the  betray'd,  forsaken,  and  oppressed, 
The  thousands  whom  the  world  forbids  to  rest. 
Where  snoiild  they  find,  (those  comforts  at  an  end 
The  Scripture  yields,)  or  hope  to  find  a  friend  ?       440 
Sorrow  might  muse  herself  to  madness  then, 
And  seeking  exile  ^  from  the  signtof  men, 
Bury  herself  in  solitude  profound, 
Grov/^frantick  with  her  pangs,  and  bite  the  ground. 
Thus  often  Unbelief,  grown  sick  of  life,  445 


TRUTH.  61 

Flies  to  the  tempting  pool,  or  felon  knife. 

The  jury  meet,  the  coroner  is  short, 

And  lunacy  the  verdict  of  the  court  j 

Reverse  the  sentence,  let  the  truth  be  known, 

Such  lunacy  is  ignorance  alone  ;  450 

They  knew  not,  what  some  bishops  may  not  know» 

That  Scripture  is  the  only  cure  of  wo ; 

That  field  of  prpmise,  how  it  flings  abroad 

Its  odour  o'er  the  Christian's  thorny  rpad! 

The  sou,  reposing  on  assur'd  relief,  455 

Feels  herself  happy  amidst  all  her  grief. 

Forgets  her  labour  as  she  toils  along, 

Weeps  tears  of  joy,  and  bursts  into  a  song. 

But  the  same  word,  that,  like  the  polish'd  share, 
Ploughs  up  the  roots  of  a  behever's  care,  460 

Kills,  too,  the  flow*ry  weeds,  where'er  they  grow. 
That  bind  the  sinner's  BacchanaUan  brow. 
Oh  that  unwelcome  voice  of  heavenly  love, 
Sad  messenger  of  mercy  from  above ! 
How  does  it  grate  upon  his  thankless  ear,  465 

Crippling  his  pleasures  with  the  cramp  of  fear  ! 
His  will  and  judgment  at  continual  strife. 
That  civil  war  imbitters  all  his  life  : 
In  vain  he  points  his  pow'rs  against  the  skies. 
In  vain  he  closes  or  averts  his  eyes,  470 

Truth  will  intrude — she  bids  him  yet  beware  ; 
And  shakes  the  sceptick  in  the  scomer's  chair. 

Though  various  foes  against  the  truth  combine. 
Pride  above  all  opposes  her  design  *, 
Pride,  of  a  growth  superiour  to  the  rest,  475 

The  subtlest  serpent  with  the  loftiest  crest. 
Swells  at  the  thought,  and,  kindling  into  rage, 
Would  hiss  the  cherub  Mercy  from  the  stage. 

And  is  the  soul  indeed  so  lost  ? — she  cries, 
Fall'n  from  her  glory,  and  too  weak  to  rise  ?  480 

Torpid  and  dull  beneath  a  frozen  zone. 
Has  she  no  spark  that  may  be  deem'd  her  own  ? 
Grant  her  indebted  to  what  zealots  call 

Vol.  I.  6 


62  TRUTH. 

Grace  undeserv'd,  yet  surely  not  for  all — 

Some  beams  of  rectitude  she  yet  displays,  485 

Some  love  of  virtue,  and  some  pow'r  to  praise; 

Can  lift  herself  above  corporeal  things. 

And,  soaring  on  her  own  unborrow'd  wings, 

Possess  herself  of  all  that's  good  or  true, 

Assert  the  skies,  and  vindicate  her  due.  490 

Past  indiscretion  is  a  venial  crime. 

And  if  the  youth,  unmellow'd  yet  by  time, 

Bore  on  his  branch,  luxuriant  then  and  rude, 

Fruits  of  a  blighted  size,  austere  and  crude, 

Maturer  years  shall  happier  stores  produce,  495 

And  meliorate  the  well-concocted  juice. 

Then,  conscious  of  her  meritorious  zeal. 

To  Justice  she  may  make  her  bold  appeal, 

And  leave  to  Mercy,  with  a  tranquil  mind. 

The  worthless  and  unfruitful  of  mankind.  500 

Hear,  then,  how  Mercy,  slighted  and  defied. 

Retorts  the  affront  against  the  crown  of  Pride. 

Perish  the  virtue  as  it  ought,  abhorr'd. 
And  the  fool  with  it  who  insults  his  Lord. 
The  atonement  a  Redeemer's  love  has  wrought,      505 
Is  not  for  you — the  righteous  need  it  not 
Seest  thou  yon  harlot  wooing  all  she  meets. 
The  worn-out  nuisance  of  the  publick  streets. 
Herself  from  morn  to  night,  from  night  to  morn. 
Her  own  abhorrence,  and  as  much  your  scorn !         510 
The  gracious  show'r,  unlimited  and  free. 
Shall  fall  on  her,  when  Heav  n  denies  it  thee. 
Of  all  that  wisdom  dictates,  this  the  drift. 
That  man  is  dead  in  sin,  and  life  a  gift. 

Is  virtue,  then,  unless  of  Christian  growth,  515 

Mere  fallacy,  or  foolishness,  or  both  .'* 
Ten  thousand  sages  lost  in  endless  wo. 
For  ignorance  of  what  they  could  not  know  ? 
That  speech  betrays  at  once  a  bigot's  tongue — 
Charge  not  a  God  with  such  outrageous  wrong.       520 
Truly  not  I — the  oartial  light  men  have. 


TRUTH.  eS 

My  creed  persuades  me,  well-employ 'd,  may  save  ; 

While  he  th^f^  scorns  the  noonday  beam,  perverse, 

Shall  find  the  blessing  unimprov'd,  a  curse. 

Let  heathen  worthies,  whose  exalted  mind  525 

Left  sensuality  and  dross  behind. 

Possess  for  me  their  undisputed  lot, 

And  take,  unenvied,  the  reward  they  sought. 

But  still  in  virtue  of  a  Saviour's  plea, 

Not  blind  by  choice,  but  destin'd  not  to  see.  530 

Their  fortitude  and  wisdom  were  a  flame 

Celestial,  though  they  knew  not  whence  it  came, 

Deriv'd  from  the  same  source  of  light  and  grace, 

That  guides  the  Christian  in  his  swifter  race ; 

Their  judge  was  conscience,  and  her  rule  their  law ; 

That  rule,  pursued  with  reverence  and  with  awe,     536 

Led  them  however  falt'ring,  faint,  and  slow, 

From  what  they  knew,  to  what  they  wish'd  to  kiujw. 

But  let  not  him,  that  shares  a  brighter  day,  | 

Traduce  the  splendour  of  a  noontide  ray,  !   540 

Prefer  the  twilight  of  a  darker  time ,  ^ 

And  deem  his  base  stupidity  no  crime ; 

The  wretch,  who  slights  the  bounties  of  the  skies, 

And  sinks,  while  favour'd  with  the  means  to  rise. 

Shall  find  them  rated  at  their  full  amount,  545 

The  good  he  scorn'd  all  carried  to  account. 

Marshalling  all  his  terrours  as  he  came, 
Thunder,  and  earthquake,  and  devouring  flame. 
From  Sinai's  top  Jehovah  gave  the  law, 
Life  for  obedience,  death  for  ev'ry  flaw.  650 

When  the  great  sov'ieign  would  his  will  express, 
He  gives  a  perfect  rule  ,  what  can  he  less  ? 
And  guards  it  with  a  sanction  as  severe 
As  vengeance  can  inflict,  or  sinners  fear  ; 
Else  his  own  glorious  rights  he  would  disclaim,        55& 
And  man  might  safely  trifle  with  his  name. 
He  bids  him  glow  with  unremitting  love 
To  all  on  earth,  and  to  himself  above  ; 
Condemns  th'  injurious  deed,  the  sland'rous  tongue, 


64  TRUTH. 

The  thought  that  meditates  a  brother's  wr6%  :        560 
Brings  not  alone  the  more  conspicuous  part, 
His  conduct,  to  the  test,  but  tries  his  heart. 

Hark  !  universal  nature  shook  and  groan'd, 
*Twas  the  last  trumpet— see  the  Judge  enthron'd  I 
Rouse  all  your  courage  at  your  utmost  need,  565 

Now  summon  ev'ry  virtue^stand  and  plead. 
What !  silent  ?  is  your  boasting  heard  no  more  ? 
That  self-renouncing  wisdom  learn'd  before, 
Had  shed  immortal  glories  on  your  brow. 
That  all  your  virtues  cannot  purchase  now.  670 

All  joy  to  the  believer  !  He  can  speak— 
Trembling,  yet  happy ;  confident,  yet  meek. 

Since  the  dear  hour  that  brought  me  to  thy  foot, 
And  cut  up  all  my  follies  by  the  root, 
I  never  trusted  in  an  arm  but  thine,  575 

Nor  hopM,  but  in  thy  righteousness  divine  : 
My  pray'rs  and  alms,  imperfect  and  defil'd, 
Were  but  the  feeble  efforts  of  a  child  ; 
Howe'er  perform'd,  it  was  their  brightest  part 
That  they  proceeded  from  a  grateful  heart ;  580 

Cleans'd  in  thine  own  all-purifying  blood, 
Forgive  their  evil,  and  accept  their  good ; 
I  cast  them  at  thy  feet — my  only  plea 
Is  what  it  was,  dependence  upon  thee  ; 
While  struggling  in  the  vale  of  tears  below,  585 

That  never  fail'd,  nor  shall  it  fail  me  now. 

Angelick  gratulations  rend  the  skies, 
Pride  falls  unpitied,  never  more  to  rise. 
Humility  is  crowned,  and  Faith  receives  the  prize. 


EXPOSTULATION. 


Tantane,  tarn  patiens^  nulla  certamine  tolli 
Dona  sines  ?  ViRO, 

WHY  weeps  the  muse  for  England  ?  What  appears 
In  England's  case,  to  move  the  muse  to  tears  ? 
From  side  to  side  of  her  delightful  isle 
Is  she  not  cloth'd  with  a  perpetual  smile  ? 
Can  Nature  add  a  charm,  or  Art  confer  5 

A  new-found  luxury  not  seen  in  her  ? 
Where  under  Heav'n  is  pleasure  more  pursued, 
Or  where  does  cold  reflection  less  intrude  ? 
Her  fields  a  rich  expanse  of  wavy  corn, 
Pour'd  out  from  Plenty's  overflowing  horn ;  10 

Ambrosial  gardens,  in  which  art  supplies 
The  fervour  and  the  force  of  Indian  skies  ; 
Her  peaceful  shores,  where  busy  Commerce  waits 
To  pour  his  golden  tide  through  all  her  gates  ; 
Whom  fiery  suns,  that  scorch  the  russet  spice  15 

Of  eastern  groves,  and  oceans  floor'd  with  ice, 
Forbid  in  vain  to  push  his  daring  way 
To  darker  climes,  or  climes  of  brighter  day  ; 
Whom  the  winds  waft  where'er  the  billows  roll. 
From  the  world's  girdle  to  the  frozen  polo  ;  **^U 

T]>e  chariots  bounding  in  her  wheel-worn  streets, 
Her  vaults  below,  where  ev'ry  vintage  meets; 
Her  theatres,  her  revels,  and  her  sports ; 
The  ^enes  to  which  not  youth  alone  resorts. 
6* 


6G  EXPOSTULATION. 

But  age,  in  spite  of  weakness  and  of  pain,  25 

Still  haunts,  in  hope  to  dream  of  youth  again  ; 

All  speak  her  happy :  let  the  muse  look  round 

From  east  to  west,  no  sorrow  can  be  fomid  ; 

Or  only  what,  in  cottages  confin'd. 

Sighs  unregarded  to  the  passing  wind.  30 

Then  wherefore  weep  for  England  ?  What  appears 

In  England's  case,  to  move  the  muse  to  tears  f 

The  prophet  wept  for  Israel :  wish'd  his  eyes 
Were  fountains  fed  with  infinite  supplies  : 
For  Israel  dwelt  in  robbery  and  wrong  ;  35 

There  were  the  scorner's  and  the  sland'rer's  tongue  ; 
Oaths,  used  as  playthings  or  convenient  tools, 
As  interest  bias'd  knaves,  or  fashion  fools  j 
Adult'ry,  neighing  at  his  neighbour's  door  ; 
Oppression,  lab'ring  hard  to  grind  the  poor :  40 

The  partial  balance,  and  deceitful  weight ; 
The  treach'rous  smile,  a  mask  for  secret  hate  ; 
Hypocrisy,  formalit/  in  pray'r. 
And  the  dull  service  of  the  lip  were  there. 
Her  women,  insolent  and  self-caress'd,  45 

By  Vanity's  unwearied  finger  dress'd, 
Forgot  the  blush,  that  virgin  fears  impart 
To  modest  cheeks,  and  borrowed  one  from  art  . 
Were  just  such  trifles,  without  worth  or  use, 
As  silly  pride  and  idleness  produce  :  50 

Curl'd,  scented,  furbelow'd,  and  flounced  around^ 
With  feet  too  delicate  to  touch  the  ground. 
They  stretch 'd  the  neck,  and  roU'd  the  wanton  ey«, 
And  sigh'd  for  every  fool  that  flutter'd  by. 

He  saw  his  people  slaves  to  ev'ry  lust,  55 

Lewd,  avaricious,  arrogant,  unjus*. : 
He  heard  the  wheels  of  an  avenging  God 
Groan  heavily  along  the  distant  ^road  ; 
Saw  Babylon  set  wide  her  two-Ieav'd  brass 
To  let  the  military  deluge  pass  ;  60 

Jerusalem  a  prey,  her  glory  soil'd, 
Her  princes  captive,  and  her  treasure  spoil'd ; 


EXPOSlt^LATION.       ,  ,,    67 

— ro  brrj5  soul  : 
Wept  till  all  Israel  heard  his  bitter  cry^    r-ruin  i<r  - 
Stamped  with  his  foot,  and  smote  upon  his  thigh ; 
But  wept,  and  stamp 'd,  and  smote  his  thigh  ill  Yaini  65 
Pleasure  is  deaf  when  told  of  future  pain,  , 
And  sounds  prophetick  are  too  rough  to  suit 
Ears  long  accustom'd  to  the  pleasing  lute : 
They  scorn'dhis  inspiration  and  his  theme, 
Pronounced  him  frantick,  and  his  fears  a  dream  S^  r  li'^ 
With  self  indulgence  wing'd  the  fleeting  houra^    ; 
Till  the  foe  found  them,  and  down  fell  their  tow*rf 

Long  time  Assyria  bound  them  in  her  chain, 
'Till  penitence  had  purg'd  the  publick  stain, 
And  Cyrus,  with  relenting  pity  mov'd,  75 

Return'd  them  happy  to  the  land  they  lov'd ; 
There,  proof  against  prosperity,  a  while 
They  stood  the  test  of  her  ensnaring  smile. 
And  had  the  grace  in  scenes  of  peace  to  show 
The  virtues  they  had  learn'd  in  scenes  of  wo.  80 

But  man  is  frail,  and  can  but  ill  sustain 
A  long  immunity  from  grief  and  pain  ; 
And  after  all  the  joys  that  Plenty  leads, 
With  tiptoe  step, Vice  silently  succeeds. 

When  he  that  rul'd  them  with  a  shepherd's  rod      85 
In  form  a  man,  in  dignity  a  God, 
Came,  not  expected  in  that  humble  guise, 
To  sift  and  search  them  with  unerring  eyes ; 
He  found  conceal'd  beneath  a  fair  outside. 
The  filth  of  rottenness,  and  worm  of  pride  ;  90 

Their  piety  a  system  of  deceit, 
Scripture  employ 'd  to  sanctify  the  cheat ; 
The  pharisee  the  dupe  of  his  own  art. 
Self  idoliz'd,  and  yet  a  knave  at  heart. 

When  nations  are  to  perish  in  their  sins,  06 

'Tis  in  the  church  the  leprosy  begins ; 
The  priest,  whose  office  is  with  zeal  sincere 
To  watch  the  fountain  and  preserve  it  clear, 
Carelessly  nods  and  sleeps  upon  the  brink, 
While  ot\iers  poison  what  the  flock  must  drink  ;       100 


70  EXPOSTULATION. 

A  cloud  to  measure  out  their  march  by  day, 

By  night  a  fire  to  cheer  the  gloomy  way  : 

That  moving  signal  summoning,  when  best 

Their  host  to  move,  and  when  it  stay'd,  to  rest.        180 

For  them  the  rocks  dissolv'd  into  a  flood, 

The  dews  condens'd  into  angelick  food, 

Their  very  garments  sacred — old,  yet  new. 

And  Time  forbid  to  touch  them  as  he  flew ; 

Str(^ams,  swell'd  above  the  bank,  enjoin'd  to  stand,  185 

While  they  pass'd  through  to  their  appointed  land  ; 

Their  leader  arm'd  with  meekness,  zeal,  and  love, 

And  grac'd  with  clear  credentials  from  above 

Themselves  secur'd  beneath  the  Almighty  wing  ; 

Their  God  their  captain,*  lawgiver,  and  king  ;         190 

Crown'd  with  a  thousand  vict'ries,  and  at  iast 

Lords  of  the  conquer'd  soil,  there  rooted  fast. 

In  peace  possessing  what  they  won  by  war. 

Their  name  far  pubhshed,  and  rever'd  as  far  : 

Where  will  you  find  a  race  like  theirs,  endow'd        195 

With  all  that  man  e'er  wish'd,  or  Heav'n  bestow'd  ? 

They,  and  they  only,  amongst  all  mankind 
Receiv'd  the  transcript  of  the  eternal  mind  ; 
Were  trusted  with  his  own  engraven  laws, 
And  constituted  guardians  of  his  cause  ;  200 

Theirs  were  the  prophets,  theirs  the  priestly  call, 
And  theirs,  by  birth,  the  Saviour  of  us  all. 
In  vain  the  nations  that  had  seen  them  rise 
With  fierce  and  envious,  yet  admiring  eyes. 
Had  sought  to  crush  them,  guarded  as  they  were    205 
By  pow'r  divine,  and  skill  that  could  not  err. 
Had  they  maintain'd  allegiance  firm  and  sure. 
And  kept  the  faith  immaculate  and  pure, 
Then  the  proud  eagles  of  all-conquering  Rome 
Had  found  one  city  not  to  be  o'ercome  j  210 

And  the  twelve  standards  of  the  tribes  imfurl'd. 
Had  bid  defiance  to  the  warring  world. 

*  Vide  Joshua,  v.  14. 


EXPOSTULATION.  71 

But  grace  abus'd  brings  forth  the  foulest  deeds, 
As  richest  soil  the  most  luxuriant  weeds. 
Cur'd  of  the  golden  calves,  their  fathers'  sin,  215 

They  set  up  self,  that  idol  god,  within ;  'J- 

View'd  a  deliverer  with  disdain  and  hate, 
Who  left  them  still  a  tributary  state ; 
Seiz'd  fast  his  hand,  held  out  to  set  them  free 
From  a  worse  yoke,  and  nail'd  it  to  the  tree  :  220 

There  was  the  consummation  and  the  cro\vn, 
The  flow'r  of  Israel's  infamy  fidl  blown  ; 
Thence  date  their  sad  declension  and  their  fall, 
Their  woes  not  yet  rcpeal'd,  thence  date  them  all. 

Thus  fell  the  best  instructed  in  her  day,  225 

And  the  most  favour'd  land,  look  where  we  may. 
Philosophy,  indeed,  on  Grecian  eyes 
Had  pour'd  the  day,  and  clear'd  the  Roman  skies  ; 
In  other  climes  perhaps  creative  Art, 
With  pow'r  surpassing  theirs,  perform'd  her  part ;  230 
Might  give  more  life  to  marble,  or  might  fill 
The  glowing  tablets  with  a  juster  skill ; 
Might  shine  in  fable,  and  grace  idle  themes 
With  all  the  embroid'ry  of  poetick  dreams  ; 
'Twas  theirs  alone  to  dive  into  the  plan,  235 

That  Truth  and  Mercy  had  reveal'd  to  man  ;        '  '^; 
And,  while  the  world  beside,  that  plan  unknown,  -^^ 
Deified  useless  wood  or  senseless  stone. 
They  breath'd  in  faith  their  well-directed  pray'rs, 
And  the  true  God,  the  God  of  truth,  was  theirs.      240 

Their  glory  faded,  and  their  race  dispcrs'd. 
The  last  of  nations  now,  though  once  the  first ; 
They  warn  and  teach  the  proudest,  would  they  Icftfxi. 
Keep  wisdom,  or  meet  vengeance  in  your  turn : 
If  we  escap'd  not,  if  Heav'n  spar'd  not  us,  245 

Peel'd,  scatter'd,  and  exterminated  thus  ! 
If  Vice  receiv'd  her  retribution  due, 
When  we  were  visited,  what  hope  for  you  ? 
When  God  arises  with  an  awful  frown 
To  punish  lust,  or  pluck  presumption  down ;  250 


72  EXPOSTULATION. 

When  gifts  perverted,  or  not  duly  piiz'd, 

PlcEisureo'ervalued,  and  his  grace  despised, 

Provoke  the  vengeance  of  his  righteous  hand  ; 

To  pour  down  wrath  upon  a  thankless  land ; 

He  will  be  found  impartially  severe,  256 

Too  just  to  wink,  or  speak  the  guilty  cleaE  .  . 

Oh  Israel,  of  all  nations  most  undone ! 
Thy  diadem  displac'd,  thy  sceptre  gone  : 
,Thy  temple,  once  thy  glory,  fall'n  and  raz'd, 
And  thou  a  worshipper  e'en  where  thou  may'st ;      260 
The  services,  once  only  without  spot,  ,.^r^^ 

Mere  shadows  now,  their  ancient  pomp  forgot ; 
Thy  Levites,  once  a  consecrated  host, 
No  longer  Levites,  and  their  lineage  lost, 
And  tho^  thyself  o'er  ev'ry  country  sown,  265 

With  none  en  earth  that  thou  canst  call  thine  own  ; 
Cry  aloud,  thou,  that  sittest  in  the  dust, 
Cry  to  the  proud,  the  cruel,  and  unjust ; 
Knock  at  the  gates  of  nations,  rouse  their  fears ; 
Say  wrath  is  coming,  and  the  storm  appears,  270 

But  raise  the  shrillest  cry  in  British  ears. 

What  ails  thee,  restless  as  the  waves  that  roar, 
And  fling  their  ibam  against  thy  chalky  shore ; 
Mistress,  at  least  while  Providence  shall  please 
And  trident-bearing  queen  of  the  wide  seas —  275 

Why,  having  kept  good  faith,  and  often  shown 
Friendship  and  truth  to  others,  ilnd'st  thou  none  ? 
Thou  that  hast  set  the  persecuted  free, 
None  interposes  now  to  succour  thee. 
Countries  indebted  to  thy  pow'r,  that  shine  280 

With  light  deriv'd  from  thee,  would  smother  thine  > 
Thy  very  children  watch  for  thy  disgrace—  ,^  ^^^^  ^^ 
A  lawless  brood,  and  curse  thee  to  thy  face.   ^  qQSj{ 
Thy  rulers  load  thy  credit  year  by  year,  r 

With  sums  Peruvian  mines  could  never  clear ;         285 
As  if,  like  arches  built  with  skilful  hand, 
The  more  'twere  press'd  the  firmer  it  would  stand. 


EXPOSTULATION  73 

The  cry  in  all  thy  ships  is  still  the  same, 
Speed  us  away  to  battle  and  to  fame. 
Thy  mariners  explore  the  wild  expanse,  290 

Impatient  to  descry  the  flags  of  France  : 
But  though  they  fight  as  thine  have  ever  fought. 
Return  asham'd  without  the  wreaths  they  sought 
Thy  senate  is  a  scene  of  civil  jar, 
Chaos  of  contrarieties  at  war ;  205 

Where  sharp  and  solid,  phlegmatick  and  light, 
Discordant  atoms  meet,  ferment,  and  fight ', 
Where  Obstinacy  takes  his  sturdy  stand, 
To  disconcert  what  Policy  has  plann'd  ; 
Where  Policy  is  busied  all  night  long  300 

In  setting  right  what  Faction  has  set  wrong ; 
Where  flails  of  oratory  tliresh  the  floor, 
That  yields  them  chaff  and  dust,  and  nothing  more. 
Thy  rack'd  inhabitants  repine,  complain, 
Tax'd  till  the  brow  of  Labour  sweats  in  vain ;  306 

War  lays  a  burden  on  the  reeling  state, 
And  peace  does  nothing  to  relieve  the  weight ; 
Successive  loads  suQceeding  broils  impose, 
And  sighing  millions  prophesy  the  close. 

Is  adverse  Providence,  when  ponder'd  well,  310 

So  dimly  writ,  or  difficult  to  spell. 
Thou  canst  not  read  with  readiness  and  ease 
Providence  adverse  in  events  like  these  ? 
Know,  then,  that  heavenly  wisdom  on  this  ball 
Creates,  gives  birth  to,  guides,  consummates  all ;     316 
That  while  laborious  and  quick-thoughte  J  man 
Snuffs  up  the  praise  of  what  he  seems  to  plan, 
He  first  conceives,  then  perfects  his  design, 
As  a  mere  instrument  in  hands  divine  : 
Blind  to  the  working  of  that  secret  pow'r,  320 

That  balances  the  wings  of  ev'ry  hour, 
The  busy  trifler  dreams  himself  alone. 
Frames  many  a  purpose,  and  God  works  his  own. 
States  thrive  or  wither  as  r  oons  wax  and  wane. 
E'en  as  his  will  and  his  decrees  ordain  ;  225 

Vol.  L  7 


72  EXPOSTULATION. 

;  When  gifts  perverted,  or  not  duly  piiz'd, 
Pleasure  o'ervalued,  and  his  grace  despis'd, 
Provoke  the  vengeance  of  his  righteous  hand  j 

-To  pour  down  wrath  upon  a  thankless  land ; 
He  will  be  found  impartially  severe,  256 

Too  just  to  wink,  or  speak  the  guilty  cleat     .  j^       --^ 
Oh  Israel,  of  all  nations  most  undone !         j^^^,  ^^^i^j 
Thy  diadem  displac'd,  thy  sceptre  gone  :  ^., 

jThy  temple,  once  thy  glory,  fall'n  and  raz'd, 

And  thou  a  worshipper  e'en  where  thou  may'^t;  .  ^360 

The  services,  once  only  without  spot,  ^^^  j,  .^^.jr|% 

Mere  shadows  now,  their  ancient  pomp  forgot ; 

Thy  Levites,  once  a  consecrated  host. 

No  longer  Levites,  and  their  lineage  lost, 

And  tho^  thyself  o'er  ev'ry  country  sown,  265 

With  none  en  earth  that  thou  canst  call  thine  own  ; 

Cry  aloud,  thou,  that  sittest  in  the  dust, 

Cry  to  the  proud,  the  cruel,  and  unjust  j 

Knock  at  the  gates  of  nations,  rouse  their  fears  ; 

Say  wrath  is  coming,  and  the  storm  appears,  270 

But  raise  the  shrillest  cry  in  British  ears. 

What  ails  thee,  restless  as  the  waves  that  roar, 
And  ffing  their  ibam  against  thy  chalky  shoro ; 
Mistress,  at  least  while  Providence  shall  please 
And  trident-bearing  queen  of  the  wide  seas — .  275 

Why,  having  kept  good  faith,  and  often  shown       ,^^ 
Friendship  and  truth  to  others,  iind'st  thou  none  ? 
Thou  that  hast  set  the  persecuted  free, 
None  interposes  now  to  succour  tliee. 
Countries  indebted  to  thy  pow'r,  that  shine  280 

With  light  deriv'd  from  thee,  would  smother  thine  >^ 
Thy  very  children  watch  for  thy  disgrace— 
A  lawless  brood,  and  curse  thee  to  thy  face. 
Thy  rulers  load  thy  credit  year  by  year, 
With  sums  Peruvian  mines  could  never  clear ;         285 
As  if,  like  arches  built  with  skilful  hand. 
The  more  'twere  press'd  the  firmer  it  would  stand. 


EXPOSTULATION  73 

The  cry  in  all  thy  ships  is  still  the  same, 
Speed  us  away  to  battle  and  to  fame. 
Thy  mariners  explore  the  wild  expanse,  290 

Impatient  to  descry  the  flags  of  France  : 
But  though  they  fight  as  tliine  have  ever  fought^ 
Return  ashara'd  without  the  wreaths  they  sought 
Thy  senate  is  a  scene  of  civil  jar, 
Chaos  of  contrarieties  at  war  j  2D5 

Where  sharp  and  solid,  phlegmatick  and  light, 
Discordant  atoms  meet,  ferment,  and  fight ; 
Where  Obstinacy  takes  his  sturdy  stand, 
To  disconcert  what  PoUcy  has  plann'd  ; 
Where  Policy  is  busied  all  night  long  300 

In  setting  right  what  Faction  has  set  wrong ; 
Where  flails  of  oratory  tliresh  the  floor, 
That  yields  them  chaff  and  dust,  and  nothing  more. 
Thy  rack'd  inhabitants  repine,  complain, 
Tax'd  till  the  brow  of  Labour  sweats  in  vain ;  306 

War  lays  a  burden  on  the  reeling  state, 
And  peace  does  nothing  to  relieve  the  weight ; 
Successive  loads  suQceeding  broils  impose, 
And  sighing  millions  prophesy  the  close. 

Is  adverse  Providence,  when  ponder'd  well,  310 

So  dimly  writ,  or  difficult  to  spell. 
Thou  canst  not  read  with  readiness  and  ease 
Providence  adverse  in  events  like  these  ? 
Know,  then,  that  heavenJy  wisdom  on  this  ball 
Creates,  gives  birth  to,  guides,  consummates  all ;     315 
That  while  laborious  and  quick-thoughteJ  man 
Snuffs  up  the  praise  of  what  he  seems  to  plan, 
He  first  conceives,  then  perfects  his  design, 
As  a  mere  instrument  in  hands  divine  : 
Blind  to  the  working  of  that  secret  pow'r,  320 

That  balances  the  wings  of  ev'ry  hour, 
The  busy  trifler  dreams  himself  alone, 
Frames  many  a  purpose,  and  God  works  his  own. 
States  thrive  or  wither  as  r  oons  wax  and  wane. 
E'en  as  his  will  and  his  decrees  ordain  ;  225 

Vol.  L  7 


74  EXPOSTULATION. 

While  honour,  virtue,  piety,  bear  sway, 

They  flourish  ;  and  as  these  decline,  decay : 

In  just  PBsentraent  of  his  injur'd  laws. 

He  pours  contempt  on  them,  and  on  their  cause  *. 

Strikes  the  rough  thread  of  errour  right  athwart      330 

The  web  of  ev'ry  scheme  they  have  at  heart  j 

Bids  rottenness  invade  and  bring  to  dust 

The  pillars  of  support,  in  which  they  trust, 

And  do  his  errand  of  disgrace  and  shame 

On  the  chief  strength  and  glory  of  the  frame.  335 

None  ever  yet  impeded  what  he  wrought. 

None  bars  him  out  from  his  most  secret  thought  j 

Darkness  itself  before  his  eye  is  light, 

And  Hell's  close  mischief  naked  in  his  sight. 

Stand  now  and  judge  thyself— Hast  thou  incurr'd 
His  anger,  who  can  waste  thee  with  a  word ;  341 

Who  poises  and  proportions  sea  and  land. 
Weighing  them  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand  : 
And  in  whose  awful  sight  all  nations  seem 
As  grasshoppers,  as  dust,  a  drop,  a  dream .''  345 

Hast  thou,  (a  sacrilege  his  soul  abhors,) 
Claim'dall  the  glory  of  thy  prosperous  wars  ? 
Proud  of  thy  fleets  and  armies,  stol'n  the  gem 
Of  his  just  praise,  to  lavish  it  on  them  ? 
Hast  thou  not  learn'd,  what  thou  art  often  told,        350 
A  truth  still  sacred,  and  believ'd  of  old. 
That  no  success  depends  on  spears  and  swords 
Unblest,  and  that  the  battle  is  the  Lord's  ? 
That  courage" is  his  creature,  and  dismay 
The  post  that  at  his  bidding  speeds  away,  355 

Ghastly  in  feature,  and  his  stamm'ring  tongue 
With  doleful  rumour  and  sad  presage  hung, 
To  quell  the  valour  of  the  stoutest  heart, 
And  teach  the  combatant  a  woman's  part  ? 
That  he  bids  thousands  fly  where  none  pursue,         360 
Saves  as  he  will  by  many  or  by  few, 
And  claims  for  ever  as  his  royal  right, 
Th'  event  and  sure  decision  of  the  fight  ? 


EXPOSTDLArioN.  75 

Hast  thou,  tho'  suckled  at  fair  Freedom's  breast, 
Exported  Slav'ry  to  the  conquered  East  ?  365 

Pull'd  down  the  tyrants  India  serv'd  with  dread, 
And  rais'd  thyself,  a  greater  in  their  stead  ? 
Gone  thither  arm'd  and  hungry,  return'd  full, 
Fed  from  the  richest  veins  of  the  Mogul, 
A  despot  big  with  pow'r  obtain'd  by  wealth,  370 

And  that  obtain'd  by  rapine  and  by  stealth  ? 
With  Asiatick  vices  stor'd  thy  mind, 
But  left  their  virtues  and  thine  own  behind  ? 
And  having  truck'd  thy  soul,  brought  home  the  fee. 
To  tempt  the  poor  to  sell  himself  to  thee  ?  375 

Hast  thou  by  statute  shov'd  from  its  design 
The  Saviour's  feast,  his  own  bless'd  bread  and  wine, 
And  made  the  symbols  of  atoning  grace 
An  office-key,  a  picklock  to  a  place, 
That  infidels  may  prove  their  title  good  380 

By  an  oath  dipp'd  in  sacramental  blood  ? 
A  blot,  that  will  be  still  a  blot,  in  spite 
Of  all  that  grave  apologists  may  write  ; 
And  though  a  bishop  toil  to  cleanse  the  stain, 
He  wipes  and  scours  the  silver  cup  in  vain.  385 

And  hast  thou  sworn  on  ev'ry  slight  pretence, 
Till  perjuries  are  common  as  bad  pence, 
While  thousands,  careless  of  the  damning  sin, 
Kiss  the  book's  outside,  who  ne'er  look'd  within  ? 

Hast  thou,  when  Heav'n  has  cloth'd  thee  witli  dis- 
grace, 390 
And  long  provok'd,  repaid  thee  to  thy  face, 
(For  thou  hast  known  eclipses,  and  endur'd, 
Dimness  and  anguish,  all  thy  beams  obscur'd, 
When  sin  has  shed  dishonour  on  thy  brow ; 
And  never  of  a  sabler  hue  than  now,)  396 
Hast  thou  with  heart  perverse  and  conscience  sear'd, 
Despising  all  rebuke,  still  perse ver'd. 
And  having  chosen  evil,  scorn'd  the  voice 
That  cried.  Repent ! — and  gloried  in  thy  chf  ice  ^ 


76  EXPOSTULATION. 

Thy  fastings,  when  calamity  at  last  400 

Suggests  th'  expedient  of  a  yearly  fast, 

What  mean  they  ?  Canst  thou  dream  there  is  a  pow*r 

In  lighter  diet  at  a  later  hour, 

To  charm  to  sleep  the  threat'ning  of  the  skies, 

And  hide  past  folly  from  all-seeing  eyes  ?  405 

The  fast  that  wins  deliverance,  and  suspends 

The  stroke  that  a  vindictive  God  intends, 

Is  to  renounce  hypocrisy  ;  to  draw 

Thy  life  upon  the  pattern  of  the  law  ; 

To  war  with  pleasure,  idoliz'd  before  ;  410 

To  vanquish  lust,  and  wear  its  yoke  no  more. 

All  fasting  else,  whatever  be  the  pretence, 

Is  wooing  mercy  by  renew'd  offence. 

Hast  thou  within  thee  sin,  that  in  old  time 
Brought  fire  from  Heav'n,  the  sex-abusing  crime,    415 
Whose  horrid  perpetration  stamps  disgrace, 
Baboons  are  free  from,  upon  human  race  ? 
Think  on  the  fruitful  and  well-water'd  spot 
That  fed  the  flocks  and  herds  of  wealthy  Lot. 
Where  Paradise  seem'd  still  vouchsaTd  on  earth,     420 
Burning  and  scorch'd  into  perpetual  dearth  ; 
Or  in  his  words  who  damn'd  the  base  desire, 
Suff'ring  the  vengeance  of  eternal  fire  ; 
Then  Nature  injur'd,  scandaliz'd,  defil'd, 
Unveil'd  her  blushing  cheek,  look'd  on,  and  smil'd  j  425 
Beheld  with  joy  the  lovely  scene  defac'd, 
And  prais'd  the  wrath  that  laid  her  beauties  waste. 

Far  be  the  thought  from  any  verse  of  mine, 
And  farther  still  the  form'd  and  fix'd  design, 
To  thrust  the  charge  of  deeds,  that  I  detest,  430 

Against  an  innocent  unconscious  breast ; 
The  man  that  dares  traduce,  because  he  can 
With  safety  to  himself,  is  not  a  man  : 
An  individual  is  a  sacred  mark 

Not  to  be  pierc'd  in  play,  or  in  the  dark  ;  135 

But  publick  censure  speaks  a  publick  foe, 
Unless  a  zeal  for  virtue  guide  the  blow. 


EXPOSTULATION.  T* 

The  priestly  brotherhood,  devout,  smcere, 
From  mean  self-mt'rest  and  ambition  clear, 
Their  hope  in  Heav'n,  servility  their  scorn,  440 

Prompt  to  persuade,  expostulate,  and  warn. 
Their  wisdom  pure,  and  giv'n  them  from  above, 
Their  usefulness  ensur'd  by  zeal  and  love, 
As  meek  as  the  man  Moses,  and  withal 
As  bold  as,  in  Agrippa*s  presence,  Paul,  445 

Should  fly  the  world's  contaminating  touch, 
Holy  and  unpolluted  ; — are  thine  such  ? 
Except  a  few  with  Eli's  spirit  bless'd, 
Hophni  and  Phineas  may  describe  the  rest. 

Where  shall  a  teacher  look,  in  days  like  these,      450 
For  ears  and  hearts  that  he  can  hope  to  please  ^ 
Look  to  the  poor — the  simple  and  the  plain 
Will  hear  perhaps  thy  salutary  strain ; 
Humility  is  gentle,  apt  to  learn, 

Speeik  but  the  word,  will  listen  and  return,  455 

Alas,  not  so  ! — the  poorest  of  the  flock 
Are  proud,  and  set  their  faces  as  a  rock  ; 
Denied  that  earthly  opulence  they  choose, 
God's  better  gift  they  scofl*  at  and  refuse. 
The  rich,  the  produce  of  a  nobler  stem,  460 

Are  more  intelligent  at  least — ^try  them. 
Oh,  vain  inquiry !  they,  without  remorse, 
Are  altogether  gone  a  devious  course  ; 
Where  beck'ning  Pleasure  leads  them,  wildly  stray, 
Have  burst  the  bands,  and  cast  the  yoke  away.        465 

Now  borne  upon  the  wings  of  truth  sublime, 
Review  thy  dim  original  and  prime. 
This  island,  spot  of  unreclaim'd  rude  earth, 
The  cradle  that  receiv'd  thee  at  thy  birth. 
Was  rock'd  by  many  a  rough  Norwegian  blast,        470 
And  Danish  bowlings  scar'd  thee  as  they  passed ; 
For  thou  wast  bom  amid  the  din  of  arms. 
And  suck'd  a  breast  that  panted  with  alarms. 
While  yet  thou  wast  a  grov'ling  puling  chit. 
Thy  bones  not  fashion'd,  and  thy  joints  not  knit,     475 
7* 


78  •  EXPOSTULATION. 

•  The  Roman  taught  thy  stubborn  knee  to  bow, 
Though  twice  a  CcBsar  could  not  bend  thee  now  . 
His  victory  was  of  that  orient  light, 
When  the  sun's  shafts  disperse  the  gloom  of  night. 
Thy  language  at  this  distant  moment  shows  4M 

How  much  the  country  to  the  conqueror  owes  ; 
Expressive,  energetick,  and  refin'd, 
It  ^arkles  with  the  gems  he  left  behind : 
He  brought  thy  land  a  blessing  when  he  came  ; 
He  found  thee  savage,  and  he  left  thee  tame  ;  485 

Taught  thee  to  clothe  thy  pink'd  and  painted  hide, 
And  grace  thy  figure  with  a  soldier's  pride ; 
He  sow'd  the  seeds  of  order  where  he  went, 
Improv'd  thee  far  beyond  his  own  intent, 
And,  while  he  rul'd  thee  by  the  sword  alone,  490 

Made  thee  at  last  a  warriour  like  his  own. 
Religion,  if  in  heavenly  truths  attir'd. 
Needs  only  to  be  seen  to  be  admir'd ; 
But  thine,  as  dark  as  witch'ries  of  the  night. 
Was  form'd  to  harden  hearts  and  shock  the  sight ;  495 
Thy  Druids  struck  the  well-hung  harps  they  bore 
With  fingers  deeply  dyed  in  human  gore  ; 
And  while  the  victim  slowly  bled  to  death. 
Upon  the  rolling  chords  rung  out  his  dying  breath. 
Who  brought  the  lamp,  that  with  awaking  beams 
Dispell'd  thy  gloom,  and  broke  away  thy  drieams,    501 
Tradition,  now  decrepit  and  worn  out. 
Babbler  of  ancient  fables,  leaves  a  doubt 
But  still  light  reach'd  thee  ;  and  those  gods  of  thine, 
Woden  and  Thor,  each  tottering  in  his  shrine,         505 
Fell,  broken  and  defac'd  at  his  own  door, 
As  Dagon  in  Philistia  long  before. 
But  Rome  with  sorceries  and  magick  wand 
Soon  rais'd  a  cloud,  that  darken'd  ev'ry  land ; 
And  thine  was  smother 'd  in  the  stench  and  fog        51C 
Of  Tiber's  marshes  and  the  papal  bog. 
Then  priests  with  bulls,  and  briefs,  and  shaven  crown^ 
And  griping  fists,  and  unrelenting  frowns, 


^--^1 


EXPOSTULATION.  79 

Legates  and  delegates  with  pow'rs  from  Hell, 
Though  heavenly  in  pretension,  fleec'd  thee  well ;  515 
And  to  this  hour,  to  keep  it  fresh  in  mind. 
Some  twigs  of  that  old  scourge  are  left  behind* 
Thy  soldiery,  the  pope's  well-manag'd  pack, 
Were  train'd  beneath  his  lash,  and  knew  the  smack, 
And  when  he  laid  them  on  the  scent  of  blood,  520 

Would  hunt  a  Saracen  through  fire  and  flood. 
Lavish  of  life,  to  win  an  empty  tomb. 
That  prov'd  a  mint  of  wealth,  a  mine  to  Rome, 
They  left  their  bones  beneath  unfriendly  skies. 
His  worthless  absolution  all  the  prize.  525 

Thou  wast  the  veriest  slave  in  days  of  yore. 
That  ever  dragg'd  a  chain  or  tugg'd  an  oar  ; 
Thy  monarchs  arbitrary,  fierce,  unjust, 
Themselves  the  slaves  of  bigotry  or  lust, 
Disdain'd  thy  counsels,  only  in  distress  530 

Found  thee  a  goodly  spunge  for  Power  to  press. 
Thy  chiefs,  the  lords  of  many  a  petty  fee, 
Provok'd  and  harass'd,  in  return  plagu'd  thee  ; 
Call'd  thee  away  from  peaceable  employ, 
Domestick  happiness  and  rural  joy,  535 

To  waste  thy  life  in  arms,  or  lay  it  down 
In  causeless  feuds  and  bick'rings  of  their  own. 
Thy  parliaments  ador'd  on  bended  knees 
Tlie  sov'reignty  they  were  conven'd  to  please  ; 
Whate'er  was  ask'd,  too  timid  to  resist,  540 

Complied  with,  and  were  graciously  dismissed  ; 
And  if  some  Spartan  soul  a  doubt  express'd. 
And  blushing  at  the  tameness  of  the  rest, 
Dar'd  to  suppose  the  subject  had  a  choice. 
He  was  a  traitor  by  the  general  voice.  645 

O  slave  !  with  powers  thou  didst  not  dare  exert, 
Verse  cannot  stoop  so  low  as  thy  desert ; 
It  shakes  the  sides  of  splenetick  Disdain, 
Thou  self-entitled  ruler  of  the  main. 
To  trace  thee  to  the  date  when  yon  fair  sea,  550 

That  clips  thy  shores,  had  no  such  charms  for  thee ; 
*  Which  may  be  found  at  Doctors'  Commons. 


80  EXPOSTULATION. 

When  other  nations  flew  from  coast  to  coast. 
And  thou  hadst  neither  fleet  nor  flag  to  boast. 

Kneel  now,  and  lay  thy  forehead  in  the  dust ; 
Blush  if  thou  canst;  not  petrified,  thou  must  j  555 

Act  but  an  honest  and  a  faithful  part ; 
Compare  what  then  thou  wast  with  what  thou  ait  j 
And  God's  disposing  providence  confess'd, 
Obduracy  itself  must  yield  the  rest — 
Then  thou  art  bound  to  serve  him,  and  to  prove,      560 
Hour  after  hour,  thy  gratitude  and  love. 

Has  he  not  hid  thee,  and  thy  favour'd  land, 
For  ages  safe  beneath  his  shelt'ring  hand  : 
Giv'n  thee  his  blessing  on  the  clearest  proof, 
Bid  nations  leagu'd  against  thee  stand  aloof,  565 

And  charg'd  Hostility  and  Hate  to  roar, 
Where  else  they  would,  but  not  upon  thy  shore  ? 
His  power  secur'd  thee  when  presumptuous  Spain 
Baptiz'd  her  fleet  invincible  in  vain ; 
Her  gloomy  monarch,  doubtful  and  resign'd  570 

To  ev'ry  pang  that  racks  an  anxious  mind, 
Ask'd  of  the  waves  that  broke  upon  liis  coast, 
What  tidings  ?  and  the  surge  replied — All  lost  ! 
And  when  the  Stuart,  leaning  on  the  Scot, 
Then  too  much  fear'd  and  now  too  much  forgot,      575 
Pierc'd  to  the  very  centre  of  the  realm, 
And  hop'd  to  seize  his  abdicated  helm, 
*Twas  but  to  prove  how  quickly  with  a  frown. 
He  that  had  rais'd  thee  could  have  pluck'd  thee  down. 
Peculiar  is  the  grace  by  thee  possess'd,  580 

Thy  foes  implacable,  thy  land  at  rest ; 
Thy  thunders  travel  over  earth  and  seas, 
And  all  at  home  is  pleasure,  wealth,  and  ease. 
'Tis  thus,  extending  his  tempestuous  arm, 
Thy  Maker  fills  the  nations  with  alarm,  585 

While  his  own  Heav'n  surveys  the  troubled  scene, 
And  feels  no  change,  unshaken  and  serene. 
Freedom,  in  other  lands  scarce  known  to  shine, 
Pours  out  a  flood  of  splendour  upon  thine  j 


EXPOSTULATION.  81 

Thou  hast  as  bright  an  int'rest  in  her  rays,  590 

As  ever  Roman  had  in  Rome's  best  days. 
True  freedom  is  where  no  restraint  is  known, 
That  Scripture,  justice,  and  good  sense  disown  ; 
Where  only  vice  and  injury  are  tied. 
And  all  from  shore  to  shore  is  free  beside.  595 

Such  freedom  is — and  Windsor's  hoary  tow*rs 
Stood  trembling  at  the  boldness  of  thy  pow'rs, 
That  won  a  nymph  on  that  immortal  plain, 
Like  Iier  the  fabled  Phoebus  woo'd  in  vain  ; 
He  found  the  laurel  only — happier  you,  600 

Th'  unfading  laurel  and  the  virgin  too  !* 

Now  think,  (if  pleasure  have  a  thought  to  spare , 
If  God  himself  be  not  beneath  her  care  ; 
Tf  business,  constant  as  the  wheels  of  time. 
Can  pause  an  hour  to  read  a  serious  rhyme  ;  605 

If  the  new  mail  thy  merchants  now  receive, 
Or  expectation  of  the  next  give  leave,) 
O  think,  if  chargeable  with  deep  arrears 
For  such  indulgence  gilding  all  thy  years, 
How  much,  though  long  neglected,  shining  yet,       610 
The  beams  of  heavenly  truth  have  swell'd  the  debt. 
When  persecuting  zeal  made  royal  sport 
With  tortur'd  innocence  in  Mary's  court, 
And  Bonner,  blithe  as  shepherd  at  a  wake, 
Enjoy'd  the  show,  and  danc'd  about  the  stake ;         615 
The  sacred  book,  its  value  understood, 
Receiv'd  the  seal  of  martyrdom  in  blood. 
Those  holy  men,  so  full  of  truth  and  grace, 
Seem  to  reflection  of  a  different  race  ; 
Meek,  modest,  venerable,  wise,  sincere,  G20 

In  such  a  cause  they  could  not  dare  to  fear  j 
They  could  not  purchase  earth  with  such  a  prize. 
Or  spare  a  hfe  too  short  to  reach  the  skies. 

*  Alluding  to  the  grant  of  Magna  Charta,  which  was  ex- 
torted from  King  John  by  the  barons  at  Riannymede,  near 
Windsor. 


B2  EXPOSTULATION. 

From  them  to  thee  convey 'd  along  the  tide, 

Their  streaming  hearts  pour'd  freely,  when  they  died  ; 

Those  truths,  which  neither  use  nor  years  impair,   02fi 

Invite  thee,  woo  thee,  to  the  bliss  the}'-  share. 

What  dotage  will  not  vanity  maintain  ? 

What  web  too  weak  to  catch  a  modern  brain  ? 

The  moles  and  bats  in  full  assembly  find  630 

On  special  search,  the  keen-ey'd  eagle  blind. 

And  did  they  dream,  and  art  thou  wiser  now  ? 

Prove  it — if  better,  I  submit  and  bow. 

Wisdom  and  goodness  are  twin-born,  one  heart 

Must  hold  both  msters,  never  seen  apart.  635 

So  then — as  darkness  overspread  the  deep, 

Ere  Nature  rose  from  her  eternal  sleep. 

And  this  delightful  earth,  and  that  fair  sky, 

Leap'd  out  of  nothing,  call'd  by  the  Most  High ; 

By  such  a  change  thy  darlmess  is  made  light,  640 

Thy  chaos  order,  and  thy  weakness  might ; 

And  He  whose  pow'r  mere  nullity  obeys, 

Who  found  thee  nothing,  form'd  thee  for  his  praise. 

To  praise  him  is  to  serve  him,  and  fulfil, 

Doing  and  sufTring,  his  unquestion'd  will ;  645 

'Tis  to  beUeve  what  men  inspir'd  of  old, 

Faithful,  and  faithfully  inform'd,  unfold  ; 

Candid  and  just,  v/itli  no  false  aim  in  view, 

To  take  for  truth  what  cannot  but  be  true  ; 

To  learn  in  God's  own  school  the  Christian  part,    650 

And  bind  the  task  assign'd  thee  to  thine  heart : 

Happy  the  man  there  seeking  and  there  found, 

Happy  the  nation  where  such  men  abound. 

How  shall  a  verse  impress  thee  ?  by  wliat  nams 
Shall  I  adjure  thee  not  to  court  thy  shame  ?  655 

Jly  theirs,  whose  bright  example  unimpeach'd. 
Directs  thee  to  that  eminence  they  reach'd, 
Heroes  and  worthies  of  days  past,  thy  sires  .'' 
Or  his,  who  touch'd  their  hearts  with  hallow'd  firop 
Their  names,  alas !  in  vairi  reproach  an  age, 
Whom  all  the  vanities  they  scorn'd  engage  * 


EXPOSTULATION.  83 

And  His,  that  seraph's  trembled  at,  is  hung 
Disgracefully  on  ev'ry  trifler's  tongue, 
Or  serves  the  champion  in  forensick  war 
To  flourish  and  parade  with  at  the  bar.  665 

Pleasure  herself  perhaps  suggests  a  plea, 
If  interest  move  thee,  to  persuade  e'en  thee  ; 
By  ev'ry  charm,  that  smiles  upon  her  face, 
Pty  joys  possess'd,  and  joys  still  held  in  chase, 
If  dear  society  bo  worth  a  thought,  670 

And  if  the  feast  of  freedom  cloy  thee  not, 
Reflect  that  these,  and  all  that  seem  thine  own, 
Held  by  the  tenure  of  his  will  alone, 
Like  angels  in  the  service  of  their  Lord, 
Remain  with  thee,  or  leave  thee  at  his  word ,  675 

That  gratitude  and  temperance  in  our  use 
Of  what  he  gives,  unsparing,  and  profuse 
Secure  the  favour,  and  enhance  the  joy, 
That  thankless  waste  and  wild  abuse  destroy. 
But,  above  all,  reflect,  how  cheap  soe'er  680 

Those  rights  that  millions  envy  thee  appear. 
And  though  resolv'd  to  risk  them,  and  swim  down 
The  tide  of  pleasure,  heedless  of  his  frown. 
That  blessings  truly  sacred,  and  when  giv'n, 
Mark'd  with  the  signature  and  stamp  of  Heav'n,     685 
The  word  of  prophecy,  those  truths  divine. 
Which  make  that  Heav'n,  if  thou  desire  it,  thine. 
Awful  alternative  !  believ'd,  belov'd, 
(Thy  glory,  and  thy  shame  if  unimprov'd,) 
Are  never  long  vouchsaTd,  if  push'd  aside  690 

With  cold  disgust,  or  philosophick  pride  ; 
And  that  judicially  withdrawn,  disgrace^ 
Ex-rour,  and  darkness,  occupy  their  place. 
A  world  is  up  in  arms,  and  thou,  a  spot 
Not  quickly  found  if  negligently  sought,  695 

Thy  soul  as  ample  as  thy  boimds  are  small, 
Endur'st  the  brunt,  and  dar'st  defy  them  aU 
And  wilt  thou  join  to  this  bold  enterprise, 
A  bolder  still,  a  contest  with  the  skies  ? 


84  EXPOSTULATION. 

Remember,  if  He  guard  thee  and  secure,  700 

Whoe'er  assails  thee,  thy  success  is  sure  ; 
But  if  He  leave  thee,  though  the  skill  and  pow*r 
Of  nations  sworn  to  spoil  thee  and  devour, 
Were  all  collected  in  thy  single  arm, 
And  thou  could'st  laugh  away  the  fear  of  harm,       705 
That  strength  would  fail,  oppos'd  against  the  pjish 
And  feeble  onset  of  a  pigmy  rush. 
Say  not,  (and  if  the  thought  of  such  defence 
Should  spring  within  thy  bosom,  drive  it  thence,) 
What  nation  amongst  all  my  foes  is  free  710 

From  crimes  as  base  as  any  charg'd  on  me  ? 
Their  measure  fiU'd,  they  too  shall  pay  the  debt. 
Which  God,  though  long  forborne,  will  not  forget. 
But  know  that  wrath  divine,  when  most  severe. 
Makes  justice  still  the  guide  of  his  career,  715 

And  will  not  punish,  in  one  mingled  crowd, 
Them  without  light,  and  thee  without  a  cloud. 
Muse,  hang  this  iKirp  upon  yon  aged  beech. 
Still  murm'ring  with  the  solemn  truths  I  teach ; 
And  while  at  intervals  a  cold  blast  sings  720 

Through  the  dry  leaves  and  pants  upon  the  strings, 
My  soul  shall  sigh  in  secret,  and  lament 
A  nation  scourg'd,  yet  tardy  to  repent. 
I  know  the  warning  song  is  sung  in  vain ; 
That  few  will  hear,  and  fewer  heed  the  strain ;        725 
But  if  a  sweeter  voice,  and  one  design'd 
A  blessing  to  my  country  and  mankind, 
Reclaim  the  wand'ring  thousands,  and  bring  home 
A  flock  so  scatter'd  and  so  wont  to  roam. 
Then  place  it  once  again  between  my  knees  ;  730 

The  sound  of  truth  will  then  be  sure  to  please  : 
And  truth  alone,  where'er  my  life  be  cast, 
In  scenes  of  plenty,  or  the  pining  waste. 
Shall  be  mj  chosen  theme,  my  glory  to  the  last. 


HQPE. 


doceas  iter,  et  sacra  ostea  pandas. 

ViRG.  En,  6. 

ASK  what  is  human  life — ^the  sage  replies, 
With  disappointment  low'ring  in  his  eyes, 
A  painful  passage  o'er  a  restless  flood ; 
A  vain  pursuit  of  fugitive  false  good  5 
A  scene  of  fancied  bliss  and  heart-felt  care,  5 

Closing  at  last  in  darkness  and  despair. 
The  poor,  inur'd  to  drudg'ry  and  distress, 
Act  without  aim,  think  little,  and  feel  less, 
And  no  where,  but  in  feign'd  Arcadian  scenes. 
Taste  happiness,  or  know  what  pleasure  means.  10 

Riches  are  pass'd  away  from  hand  to  hand, 
As  fortune,  vice,  or  folly  may  command  ; 
As  in  a  dance,  the  pair  that  take  the  lead 
Turn  downward,  and  the  lowest  pair  succeed, 
So  shifting  and  so  various  is  the  plan,  15 

By  which  Hcav'n  rules  the  mix'd  affairs  of  man  ; 
Vicissitude  wheels  round  the  motley  crowd, 
TJio  rich  grow  poor,  the  poor  become  purse-proud  ; 
Business  is  labour,  and  man's  weakness  such. 
Pleasure  is  labour  too,  arid  tires  as  much.  20 

The  very  sense  of  it  foregoes  its  use. 
By  repetition  pall'd,  by  age  obtuse, 
f  outh  lost  in  dissipation,  we  deplore. 
Through  life's  sad  remnant,  what  no  sighs  restore  : 

Vol..  I.  8 


86  HOPE. 

T  ur  years  a  fruitless  race  without  a  prize,  25 

Poo  many,  yet  too  few  to  make  us  wise. 

Dangling  his  cane  about,  and  taking  snuff, 
Lothario  cries,  What  philosophick  stuff- 
O  querulous  and  weak  ! — ^whose  useless  brain 
Once  thought  of  nothing,  and  now  thinks  in  vain  j    30 
Whose  eye  reverted  weeps  o'er  all  the  past, 
Whose  prospect  shows  thee  a  disheart'ning  waste : 
Would  age  in  thee  resign  his  wintry  reign, 
And  youth  invigorate  that  frame  again, 
Renew'd  desire  would  grace  with  other  speech  35 

Joys  always  priz'd,  when  plac'd  within  our  reach. 

For,  lift  thy  palsied  head,  shake  off  the  gloom 
That  overhangs  the  borders  of  thy  tomb. 
See  Nature  gay  as  when  she  first  began, 
With  smiles  alluring  her  admirer  man ;  40 

She  spreads  the  morning  over  eastern  hills, 
Earth  glitters  with  the  drops  the  night  distils ; 
The  sun,  obedient  at  her  call,  appears. 
To  fling  his  glories  o'er  the  robe  she  wears ; 
Banks  cloth'd  with  flow'rs,  groves  fill'd  with  sprightly 
sounds,  45 

The  yellow  tilth,  green  meads,  rocks,  rising  grounds, 
Streams  edg'd  with  osiers,  fatt'ning  ev'ry  field. 
Where'er  they  flow,  now  seen,  and  now  conceal'd  ; 
From  the  blue  rim,  where  skies  and  mountains  meet, 
Down  to  the  very  turf  beneath  thy  feet,  50 

Ten  thousand  charms,  that  only  fools  despise, 
Or  Pride  can  look  at  with  indiff'rent  eyes. 
All  speak  one  language,  all  with  one  sweet  voice 
Cry  to  her  universal  realm.  Rejoice  ! 
Man  feels  the  spur  of  passions  and  desires  ;  55 

And  she  gives  largely  more  than  he  requires  ; 
Not  that  his  hours  devoted  all  to  Care, 
HoUow-ey'd  Abstinence,  and  lean  Despair, 
The  wretch  may  pine,  while  to  his  smeR,  taste,  sight. 
She  holds  a  paradise  of  rich  delight ;  60 


HOPE.  87 

But  gently  to  rebuke  his  awkward  fear, 
To  prove  that  what  she  gives,  she  gives  sincere. 
To  banish  hesitation,  and  proclaim 
His  happiness,  her  dear,  her  only  aim. 
'Tis  grave  philosophy's  absurdest  dream,  65 

That  Heav'n's  intentions  are  not  what  they  seem 
That  only  shadows  are  dispens'd  below, 
And  earth  has  no  reality  but  wo. 

Thus  things  terrestrial  wear  a  different  hue, 
As  youth  or  age  persuades  ;  and  neither  true.  70 

So  Flora's  wreath  through  colour'd  crystal  seen, 
The  rose  or  lily  appears  blue  or  green, 
But  still  th'  imputed  tints  are  those  alone 
The  medium  represents,  and  not  their  own. 

To  rise  at  noon,  sit  slipshod  and  undress'd,  75 

To  read  the  news  or  fiddle  as  seems  best, 
Till  half  the  world  comes  rattling  at  his  door, 
To  fill  the  dull  vacuity  till  four  ; 
And,  just  when  ev'ning  turns  the  blue  vault  gray, 
To  spend  two  hours  in  dressing  for  the  day  :  80 

To  make  the  Sun  a  bauble  without  use, 
Save  for  the  fruits  his  heav'nly  beams  produce : 
Quite  to  forget,  or  deem  it  worth  no  thought. 
Who  bids  him  shine,  or  if  he  shine  or  not ; 
Through  mere  necessity  to  close  his  eyes  85 

Just  when  the  larks  and  when  the  shepherds  rise  • 
Is  such  a  life,  so  tediously  the  same, 
So  void  of  all  utility  or  aim, 
That  poor  Jonquil,  with  almost  ev'ry  breath, 
Sighs  for  his  exit,  vulgarly  calPd  death :  90 

For  he,  with  all  his  follies,  has  a  mind 
Not  yet  so  blank,  or  fashionably  blind,  ^^  ^ 

But  now  and  then  perhaps  a  feeble  ray 
Of  distant  wisdom  shoots  across  his  way ; 
By  which  he  reads,  that  life  without  a  plan, 
As  useless  as  the  moment  it  began, 
Serves  merely  as  a  soil  for  discontent 
To  thrive  in  ;  an  incumbrance  ere  half  spent. 


88  HOPE. 

O  weariness  beyond  what  asses  feel, 

That  tread  the  circuit  of  the  cistern  wheel ;  100 

A  dull  rotation,  never  at  a  stay, 

Yesterday's  face  twin  image  of  to-day  ; 

While  conversation,  an  exhausted  stock, 

Grows  drowsy  as  the  clicking  of  a  clock. 

No  need  he  cries^  of  gravity  stuft^d  out  X05 

With  academick  dignity  devout, 

To  read  wise  lectures,  vanity  the  text  ; 

Proclaim  the  remedy,  ye  learned,  next ; 

For  truth  self-evident,  with  pomp  impress'd, 

Is  vanity  surpassing  all  the  rest.  110 

That  remedy,  not  hid  in  deeps  profound, 
Yet  seldom  sought  where  only  to  be  found, 
While  passion  turns  aside  from  its  due  scope 
Th'  inquirer's  aim,  that  remedy  is  hope. 
Life  is  his  gift,  from  whom  whate'er  life  needs,        115 
With  ev'ry  good  and  perfect  gift  proceeds  ; 
Bestow'd  on  man,  like  all  that  we  partake, 
Royally,  freely,  for  his  bounty's  sake  ; 
Transient  indeed,  as  is  the  fleeting  hour, 
And  yet  the  seed  of  an  immortal  flow'r ;  130 

Design'd  in  honour  of  his  endless  love, 
To  fill  with  fragance  his  abode  above ; 
No  trifle,  howsoever  short  it  seem, 
And  howsoever  shadowy,  no  dream  ; 
Its  value  what  no  thought  can  ascertain,  125 

Nor  all  an  angel's  eloquence  explain. 
Men  deal  with  life  as  children  v/ith  their  play, 
Who  first  misuse,  then  cast  their  toys  away  ; 
Live  to  no  sober  purpose,  and  contend 
That  their  Creator  had  no  serious  end.  130 

When  God  and  man  stand  opposite  in  view, 
Man's  disappointment  must  of  course  ensue. 
The  just  Creator  condescends  to  write. 
In  beams  of  inextinguishable  light, 
His  names  of  wisdom,  goodness,  pow'r,  and  love,      135 
On  all  that  blooms  below,  or  shines  above  ; 


HOPE.  89 

To  catch  the  wand'ring  notice  of  mankind, 
And  teach  the  world,  if  not  perversely  Llind, 
His  gracious  attributes,  and  prove  the  share 
His  offspring  hold  in  his  paternal  care.  140 

If,  led  from  earthly  things  to  things  divine, 
His  creature  thwart  not  his  august  design. 
Then  praise  is  heard  instead  of  reas'ning  pride, 
And  captious  cavil  and  complaint  subside. 
Nature  employ'd  in  her  allotted  place,  1 45 

Is  handmaid  to  the  purposes  of  Grace  ; 
By  good  vouchsard  makes  known  superiour  good, 
And  bliss  not  seen  by  blessings  understood  : 
That  bliss,  reveal'd  in  Scripture,  with  a  glow 
Bright  as  the  covenant- ensuring  bow,  150 

Fires  all  his  feelings  with  a  noble  scorn 
Of  sensual  evil,  and  thus  hope  is  born. 
Hope  sets  the  stamp  of  vanity  on  all 
That  men  have  deem'd  substantial  since  the  fall ; 
Yet  has  the  wondrous  virtue  to  educe  155 

From  emptiness  itself  a  real  use  ; 
And  while  she  takes,  as  at  a  father's  hand, 
What  health  and  sober  appetite  demand, 
From  fading  good  derives,  with  chemick  art, 
That  lasting  happiness,  a  thankful  heart.  160 

Hope  with  uplifted  foot,  set  free  from  earth. 
Pants  for  the  place  of  her  ethereal  birth, 
On  steady  wings  sails  through  the  immense  abyss, 
Plucks  amaranthine  joys  from  bowers  of  bliss. 
And  crowns  the  soul,  while  yet  a  mourner  here        165 
With  wreaths  like  those  triumphant  spirits  wear. 
Hope,  as  an  anchor  firm  and  sure,  holds  fast 
The  Christian  vessel,  and  defies  the  blast. 
Hope  !  nothing  else  can  nourish  and  secure 
His  new-born  virtues,  and  preserve  him  pure.  170 

Hope  !  let  the  wretch,  once  conscious  of  the  joy, 
Whom  now  despairing  agonies  destroy, 
Speak,  for  he  can,  and  none  so  well  as  he, 
WJiat  treasures  centre,  what  dehghts  in  thee 
8* 


90  HOPE. 

Had  he  the  gems,  the  spices,  and  the  land,  175 

That  boasts  the  treasure,  all  at  his  command ; 

The  fragrant  ^Tove,  th'  inestimable  mine, 

Were  light,  when  weigh'd  against  one  smile  of  Ihino. 

Though  clasp 'd  and  cradled  in  his  nurse's  arms. 
He  shines  with  all  a  cherub's  artless  charms-  IQO 

Man  is  the  genuine  offspring  of  revolt, 
Stubborn  and  sturdy  as  a  wild  ass'  colt  ; 
His  passions,  like  the  wat'ry  stores  that  sleep 
Beneath  the  smiling  surface  of  the  deep. 
Wait  but  the  lashes  of  a  wintry  storm,  185 

To  frown,  and  roar,  and  shake  his  feeble  form. 
From  mfancy  through  childhood's  giddy  maze 
Fro  ward  at  school,  and  fretful  in  his  plays. 
The  puny  tyrant  burns  to  subjugate 
The  free  republick  of  the  w^hipgig  state.  190 

If  one,  his  equal  in  athletick  frame, 
Or,  more  provoking  still,  of  nobler  name, 
Dare  step  across  his  arbitrary  views. 
An  Iliad,  only  not  in  verse,  ensues  ; 
The  little  Greeks  look  trembling  at  the  scales,        195 
Till  the  best  tongue,  or  heaviest  hand  prevails. 

Now  see  him  launch'd  into  the  world  at  large  ; 
If  priest,  supinely  droning  o'er  his  charge. 
Their  fleece  his  pillow,  and  his  weekly  drawl, 
Though  short,  too  long,  the  price  he  pays  for  alL    200 
If  lawyer,  loud  whatever  cause  he  plead. 
But  proudest  of  the  worst,  if  that  succeed. 
Perhaps  a  grave  physician,  gath'ring  fees. 
Punctually  paid  for  length'ning  out  disease; 
No  Cotton,  whose  humanity  sheds  rays  205 

That  make  superiour  skill  his  second  praise. 
If  arms  engage  him,  he  devotes  to  sport 
His  date  of  life,  so  likely  to  be  short ; 
A  soldier  may  be  any  thing,  if  brave, 
So  may  a  tradesman,  if  not  quite  a  knave.  210 

Such  stuff  the  Avorld  is  made  of:  and  mankind 
To  passion,  int'rost,  plrasure,  whim,  resign'd, 


HOPE. 
Insist  on,  as  if  each  "were  his  own  pop^^ii 
Forgiveness,  and  the  privilege  of  hope. .: 
But  Conscience,  in  some  awful,  silent  hout, 
When  captivating  lusts  have  lost  their  pow'r, 
Perhaps  when  sickness,  or  some  fearful  dream, 
Reminds  him  of  religion,  hated  theme  ! 
Starts  from  the  down,  on  which  she  lately  slept, 
And  tells  of  laws  despis'd,  at  least  not  kept :  220 

Shows  with  a  pointing  finger,  but  no  noise, 
A  pale  procession  of  past  sinful  joys, 
All  witnesses  of  blessings  foully  scorn 'd, 
And  life  abus'd,  and  not  to  be  suborn'd. 
Mark  these,  she  says  ;  these  summon'd  from  afftf*   225 
Begin  their  march  to  meet  thee  at  the  bar  ; 
There  find  a  judge  inexorably  just. 
And  perish  there,  as  all  presumption  must. 

Peace  be  to  those,  (such  peace  as  earth  can  give>) 
Who  Uve  in  pleasure,  dead  e'en  while  they  live  j     230 
Born,  capable,  indeed,  of  heav'nly  truth  ; 
But  down  to  latest  age,  from  earliest  youth, 
Their  mind  a  wilderness  through  want  of  care, 
The  plough  of  wisdom  never  ent'ring  there. 
Peace,  (if  insensibility  may  claim         •      ''  235 

A  right  to  the  meek  honours  of  her  name,) 
To  men  of  pedigree,  their  noble  race, 
Emulous  always  of  the  nearest  place 
To  any  throne,  except  the  throne  of  Grace. 
Let  cottagers  and  unenlighten'd  swains  240 

Revere  the  laws  they  dream'd  that  Heav'n  ordains ; 
Resort  on  Sundays  to  the  house  of  pray'r. 
And  ask,  and  fancy  they  find  blessings  there.         ^ 
Themselves,  perhaps,  when  weary  they  retreat 
T'  enjoy  cool  nature  in  a  country  seat,  245 

T'  exchange  the  centre  of  a  thousand  trades, 
For  clumps,  and  lawns,  and  temples,  arid  cascades, 
May  now  and  then  their  velvet  cushions  take , 
And  seem  to  pray,  for  good  example  sake  ; 


92  HOPE. 

Judging,  in  charity,  no  doubt,  the  town  250 

Pious  enough,  and  having  need  of  none. 

Kind  souls  !  to  teach  their  tenantry  to  prize 

What  they  themselves,  without  remorse  despise  : 

Nor  hope  have  they,  nor  fear  of  aught  to  come,    , 

As  well  for  them  had  prophecy  been  dumb  ;  255 

They  could  have  held  the  conduct  they  pursue, 

Had  Paul  of  Tarsus  liv'd  and  died  a  Jew  ; 

And  truth,  propos'd  to  reas'ners  wise  as  they, 

Is  a  pearl  cast — completely  cast  away. 

They  die — Death  lends  them,  pleas'd,  and  as  in 
sport,  260 

All  the  grim  honours  of  his  ghastly  court. 
Far  other  paintings  grace  the  chamber  now. 
Where  late  we  saw  the  mimick  landscape  glow : 
The  busy  heralds  rang  the  sable  scene 
With  mournful  scutcheons,  and  dim  lamps  between  ; 
Proclaim  their  titles  to  the  crowd  around,  266 

But  they  that  wore  them  move  not  at  the  sound ; 
The  coronet  plac'd  highly  at  their  head. 
Adds  nothing  now  to  the  degraded  dead  ; 
And  e'en  the  star,  that  glitters  on  the  bier,  270 

Can  only  say — Nobility  lies  here. 
Peace  to  all  such — 'twere  pity  to  oiFend, 
By  useless  censure,  whom  we  cannot  mend ; 
Life  without  hope  can  close  but  in  despair, 
'Twas  there  we  found  them,  and   must  leave  them 
there.  275 

As  when  two  pilgrims  in  a  forest  stray. 
Both  may  be  lost,  yet  each  in  his  own  way  ; 
So  fg-res  it  with  the  multitudes  beguil'd 
In  vain  Opinion's  waste  and  dang 'reus  wild ; 
Ten  thousand  rove  the  brakes  and  thorns  among,    280 
Some  eastward,  and  some  westward,  and  all  wrong. 
But  here,  alas !  the  fatal  difPrence  lies. 
Each  man's  belief  is  right  in  his  own  eyes  ; 
And  he  that  blames  what  they  have  blindly  chose. 
Incurs  resentment  for  the  love  he  shows.  285 


HOPE.  93 

Say,  botanist,  within  whose  province  fall 
The  cedar  and  the  hyssop  on  the  wall, 
Of  all  that  deck  the  lanes,  the  fields,  the  bow'rs  , 
What  parts  the  kindred  tribes  of  weeds  and  flow'rs  ? 
Sweet  scent,  or  lovely  form,  or  both  combin'd,         290 
Distinguish  ev'ry  cultivated  kind ; 
The  want  of  both  denotes  a  meaner  breed, 
And  Chloe  from  her  garland  picks  the  weed. 
Thus  hopes  of  ev'ry  sort,  whatever  sect 
Esteem  them,  sow  them,  rear  them,  and  protect     295 
If  wild  in  nature,  and  not  duly  found, 
Gethsemane  !  in  thy  dear  hallow'd  ground, 
That  cannot  bear  the  blaze  of  Scripture  light, 
Nor  cheer  the  spirit,  nor  refresh  the  sight. 
Nor  animate  the  soul  to  Christian  deeds,  300 

(Oh  cast  them  from  thee  !)  are  weeds,  arrant  weeds. 

Ethelred's  house,  the  centre  of  six  ways, 
Diverging  each  from  each,  like  equal  rays, 
Himself  as  bountiful  as  April  rains, 
Lord  paramount  of  the  surrounding  plains,  30& 

Would  give  rehef  of  bed  and  board  to  none, 
But  guests  that  sought  it  in  th'  appointed  One  ; 
And  they  might  enter  at  his  open  door. 
E'en  till  his  spacious  hall  would  hold  no  more. 
He  sent  a  servant  forth,  by  ev'ry  road,  310 

To  sound  his  horn,  and  publish  it  abroad. 
That  all  might  mark — knight,  menial,  high,  and  low, 
An  ord'nance  it  concern'd  them  much  to  know. 
If  after  all  some  headstrong  hardy  lout 
Would  disobey,  tliDUgh  sure  to  be  shut  out,  315 

Could  he  with  reason  murmur  at  his  case, 
Himself  sole  author  of  his  own  dipgrace  ? 
No  !  the  decree  was  just  and  without  flaw  ; 
And  he  that  made,  had  right  to  make  the  law ; 
His  sov'reign  power,  and  pleasure  unrestrain'd,        320 
The  wrong  was  his  who  wrongfully  complain'd. 

Yet  half  mankind  maintains  a  churlish  strife 
With  Him,  the  Donor  of  eternal  hfe, 


94  HOPE. 

Because  the  deed,  by  which  his  love  confirms 

The  largess  h3  bestows,  prescribes  the  terms.  S25 

Compliance  with  his  will  your  lot  ensuies, 

Accept  it  only,  and  the  boon  is  yours. 

And  sure  it  is  as  kind  to  smile  and  give, 

As  with  a  frown  to  say.  Do  this,  and  live. 

Love  is  not  pedler's  trump'ry,  bought  and  sold  •       330 

He  will  give  freely,  or  he  will  withhold ; 

His  soul  abhors  a  mercenary  thought, 

And  him  as  deeply  who  abhors  it  not ; 

He  stipulates,  indeed,  but  merely  this,      ^  ^ 

That  man  will  freely  take  an  unbought  bliss,  335 

Will  trust  him  for  a  faithful  gen'rous  part, 

Nor  set  a  price  upon  a  willing  heart. 

Of  all  the  wL/s  that  seem  to  promise  fair, 

To  place  you  where  his  saints  his  presence  share. 

This  only  can ;  for  this  plain  cause,  express'd  340 

In  terms  as  plam— Himself  has  shut  the  rest. 

But  oh  the  strife,  the  bick'ring,  and  debate, 

The  tidings  of  unpurchas'd  Heav'n  create  I 

The  flirted  fan,  the  bridle,  and  the  toss, 

All  speakers,  yet  all  language  at  a  loss. 

From  stucco'd  walls  smart  arguments  rebound ; 

And  beaux,  adepts  in  ev'ry  thing  profound. 

Die  of  disdain,  or  whistle  off  the  sound. 

Such  is  the  clamour  of  rooks,  daws,  and  kites, 

Th'  explosion  of  the  levell'd  tube  excites. 

Where  mould'ring  abbey  walls  o'erhang  the  glade, 

And  oaks  coeval  spread  a  mournful  shade, 

The  screaming  nations,  hov'ring  in  mid  air. 

Loudly  resent  the  stranger's  freedom  there. 

And  seem  to  warn  him  never  to  repeat  355 

His  bold  intrusion  on  their  dark  retreat. 

Adieu,  Vinosa  cries,  ere  yet  he  sips 
The  purple  bumper  trembling  at  his  lips — 
Adieu  to  all  morahty  !  if  Grace 
Make  works  a  vain  ingredient  in  the  case.  360 


345 


350 


HOPE.  95 

The  Christian  hope  is — Waiter,  draw  the  coik— 

If  I  mistake  not — Blockhead  !  with  a  fork  ! 

Without  good  works,  whatever  some  may  boast, 

Mere  folly  and  delusion — Sir,  your  toast. 

My  firm  persuasion  is,  at  least  sometimes,  3(J5 

That  Heav'n  will  weigh  man's  virtues  and  his  crimes 

With  nice  attention,  in  a  righteous  scale, 

And  save  or  damn  as  these  or  those  prevail. 

I  plant  my  foot  upon  this  groimd  of  trust, 

And  silence  ev'ry  fear  with — God  is  just.  370 

But  if,  perchance,  on  some  dull,  drizzling  day, 

A  thought  intrude,  that  says,  or  seems  to  say, 

If  thus  th'  important  cause  is  to  be  tried, 

Suppose  the  beam  should  dip  on  the  wrong  side } 

I  soon  recover  from  these  needless  frights,  375 

And  God  is  merciful — sets  all  to  rights. 

Thus  between  justice,  as  my  prime  support. 

And  mercy,  fled  to  as  the  last  resort, 

I  glide  and  steal  along  with  Heav'n  in  view. 

And— pardon  me,  the  bottle  stands  with  you.  380 

I  never  will  believe,  the  colonel  cries, 
The  sanguinary  schemes  that  some  devise, 
Who  make  the  good  Creator  on  their  plan, 
A  being  of  less  equity  than  man. 

If  appetite,  or  what  divines  call  lust,  385 

Which  men  comply  with,  e'en  because  th^y  must, 
Be  punish'd  with  perdition,  who  is  pure  ? 
Then  theirs,  no  doubt,  as  well  as  mine,  is  sure. 
If  sentence  of  eternal  pain  belong 
To  ev'ry  sudden  slip  and  transient  wrong,  390 

Then  Heav'n  enjoins  the  fallible  and  frail 
A  hopeless  task,  and  damns  them  if  they  fail. 
My  creed,  (whatever  some  creed-makers  mean 
By  Athanasian  nonsense,  or  Nicene,) 
My  creed  is,  he  is  safe,  that  does  his  best,  395 

And  death's  a  doom  sufficient  for  the  rest. 

Right,  says  an  ensign ;  and  for  aught  I  see 
Tour  faith  and  mine  substantially  agree  ; 


0C  HOPE. 

Tho  best  of  ev'ry  man's  performance  here 

Is  to  discharge  the  duties  of  his  sphere.  400 

A  lawyer's  dealings  should  be  just  and  fair, 

Honesty  sliines  with  great  advantage  there. 

Fasting  and  pray'r  sit  well  upon  a  priest, 

A  decent  caution  and  reserve  at  least. 

A  soldier's  best  is  courage  in  the  field,  405 

With  nothing  here  that  wants  to  be  conceal'd. 

Manly  doportment,  gallant,  easy,  gay ; 

A  hand  as  lib'ral  as  the  light  of  day. 

The  soldier  thus  endow'd  who  never  shrinks, 

Nor  closets  up  his  thoughts,  whate'er  he  thinks       410 

Who  scorns  to  do  an  injury  by  stealthy 

Must  go  to  Heav'n — and  I  must  drink  his  healtk 

Sir  Smug,  he  cries,  (for  lowest  at  the  board, 

Just  made  fifth  chaplain  of  his  patron  lord, 

His  shoulders  witnessing  by  many  a  shrug  415 

How  much  his  feelings  suffer'd,  sat  Sir  Smug,^ 

Your  office  is  to  winnow  false  from  true  ; 

Come,  Prophet,  drink,  and  tell  us,  What  think  j  -  «i  ? 

Sighing  and  smiling  as  he  takes  his  glass, 
Which  they  that  woo  preferment  rarely  pass,  420 

Fallible  man,  the  church-bred  youth  replies, 
Is  still  found  fallible,  however  wise ; 
And  diff*'ring  judgments  serve  but  to  declare. 
That  truth  Ijes  somewhere,  if  we  knew  but  where 
Of  all  it  ever  was  my  lot  to  read,  125 

Of  criticks  now  alive,  or  long  since  dead, 
The  book  of  all  the  world  that  charm 'd  me  most 
Was — ^well-a-day — ^the  title  page  was  lost ; 
The  writer  well  remarks,  a  heart  that  knows 
To  take  with  gratitude  what  Heav'n  bestows,         ^30 
With  prudence  always  ready  at  our  call. 
To  guide  our  use  of  it,  is  all  in  all. 
Doubtless  it  is — To  which,  of  my  own  store, 
I  superadd  a  few  essentials  more  ; 
But  these,  excuse  the  liberty  I  take,  435 

[  wave  just  how,  for  conversation's  sake. — 


zJj 


HOPE.  97 

Spoke  like  an  oraclci  they  all  exclaim, 

And  add  Right  Rev'rend  to  Smug's  honoured  name. 

And  yet  our  lot  is  giv'n  us  in  a  land, 
Where  busy  arts  are  never  at  a  stand ;  440 

Where  Science  points  her  telescopick  eye, 
Familiar  with  the  wonders  of  the  sky  ; 
Where  bold  inquiry,  diving  out  of  sight, 
Brings  many  a  precious  pearl  of  truth  to  If^ht ; 
Where  naught  eludes  the  persevering  quest,  445 

That  fashion,  taste,  or  luxury,  suggest. 

But  above  all,  in  her  own  Ught  array'd, 
See  Mercy*s  grand  apocalypse  display'd  ! 
The  sacred  book  no  longer  suffers  wrong. 
Bound  in  the  fetters  of  an  unltnown  toncue  ;  450 

But  speaks  with  plainness,  art  could  never  mend, 
What  simplest  minds  can  soonest  comprehend. 
God  gives  the  word,  the  preachers  throng  around, 
Live  from  liis  lips,  and  spread  the  glorious  sound ; 
That  sound  bespeaks  Salvation  on  her  way,  455 

The  trumpet  of  a  life-restoring  day  ; 
'Tis  heard  where  England's  eastern  glory  shines, 
And  in  the  gulfs  of  her  Cornubian  mines. 
And  still  it  spreads.     See  Germany  send  forth 
Her  sons*  to  pour  it  on  the  farthest  north :  460 

Fir'd  with  a  zeal  peculiar,  they  defy 
The  rage  and  rigour  of  a  polar  sky. 
And  plant  successfully  sweet  Sharon's  rose 
On  icy  plains,  and  in  eternal  snows. 

O  bless'd  within  th'  enclosure  of  your  rocks,         465 
Nor  herds  have  ye  to  boast,  nor  bleating  flocks ; 
No  fertilizing  streams  your  fields  divide, 
That  show  revers'd  the  villas  on  their  side  ; 
No  groves  have  ye  ;  no  cheerful  sound  of  bird, 
Or  voice  of  turtle  in  your  land  is  heard  ;  4i'0 

Nor  grateful  eglantine  regales  the  smell 
Of  those  that  walk  at  ev'ning  where  ye  dwell ; 

•^The  Moravian  Missionaries  in  Greenland.    See  Krants 
Vol.  I.  9 


98  HOPE. 

But  winter,  arm'd  with  terrours  here  unknown, 

Sits  absolute  on  his  unshaken  throne  ; 

Piles  up  his  stores  amidst  the  frozen  waste,  475 

And  bids  the  mountains  he  has  built  stand  fast : 

Beckons  the  legions  of  his  storms  away 

From  happier  scenes,  to  make  your  land  a  prey  ; 

Proclaims  the  soil  a  conquest  he  has  won, 

And  scorns  to  share  it  with  the  distant  Sun.  480 

— Yet  truth  is  yours,  remote,  unenvied  isle  ! 

And  Peace,  the  genuine  offspring  of  her  smile ; 

The  pride  of  letter'd  Ignorance  that  binds 

In  chains  of  errour  our  accomplish'd  minds, 

That  decks  with  all  the  splendour  of  the  true,  485 

A  false  religion  is  unknown  to  you. 

Nature,  indeed,  vouchsafes  for  our  delight 

The  sweet  vicissitudes  of  day  and  night  : 

Soft  airs  and  genial  moisture  feed  and  cheer 

Field,  fruit,  and  flow'r,  and  ev'ry  creature  here  ;       490 

But  brighter  beams  than  his  who  fires  the  skies, 

Have  ris'n  at  length  on  your  admiring  eyes. 

That  shoot  into  your  darkest  caves  the  day. 

From  which  our  nicer  opticks  turn  away. 

Here  see  the  encouragement  Grace  gives  to  vice, 
The  dire  effect  of  mercy  without  price  !  496 

What  were  they  ?  what  some  fools  are  made  by  art, 
They  were  by  nature,  atheists  head  and  heart. 
The  jp;ross  idolatry  blind  heathens  teach. 
Was  too  refin'd  for  them,  beyond  their  reach.  500 

Not  e'en  the  glorious  Sun,  though  men  revere 
The  monarch  most,  that  seldom  will  appear. 
And  tho'  liis  beams,  that  quicken  where  they  shine, 
May  claim  some  right  to  be  esteem'd  divine. 
Not  e'en  the  Sun,  desirable  as  rare,  505 

Could  bend  one  knee,  engage  one  votary  there  ; 
They  were,  what  base  Credulity  believes 
True  Christians  are,  dissemblers,  drunkards,  thieves  : 
The  fuU-gorg'd  savage,  at  his  nauseous  feast 
Spent  half  the  darkness,  and  snor*d  out  the  rest,      510 


HOPE.  99 

Was  one,  whom  Justice,  on  an  equal  plan 
Denouncing  death  upon  the  sins  of  man, 
Might  almost  have  indulged  with  an  escape, 
Chargeable  only  with  a  human  shape. 

What  are  they  now  ? — Morality  may  spare  515 

Her  grave  concern,  her  kind  suspicions  there  : 
The  wretch, -who  once  sang  wildly,  danc*d,  and  lahgh'd. 
And  suck'd  in  dizzy  madness  with  kis  draught, 
Has  wept  a  silent  flood,  revers'd  his  ways, 
Is  sober,  meek,  benevolent,  and  prays,  520 

Feeds  sparingly,  communicates  his  store. 
Abhors  the  craft  he  boasted  of  before. 
And  he  that  stole  has  learn'd  to  steal  no  more. 
Well  spake  the  prophet — Let  the  desert  sing, 
Where  sprang  the  thorn,  the  spiry  fir  shall  spring,  525 
And  where  unsightly  and  rank  thistles  grew, 
Shall  grow  the  myrtle  and  luxuriant  yew. 

Go  now,  and  with  important  tone  demand 
On  what  foimdation  virtue  is  to  stand. 
If  self-exalting  claims  be  turn'd  adrift,  530 

And  grace  be  grace  indeed,  and  life  a  gift ; 
The  poor  reclaim'd  inhabitant,  his  eyes 
Glist'ning  at  once  with  pity  and  surprise, 
Amaz'd  that  shadows  should  obscure  the  sight 
Of  one,  whose  birth  was  in  a  land  of  light,  535 

Shall  answer,  Hope,  sweet  Hope,  has  set  me  free, 
And  made  all  pleasures  else  mere  dross  to  me. 

These  amidst  scenes  as  waste  as  if  denied 
The  common  care  that  waits  on  all  beside. 
Wild  as  if  Nature  there,  void  of  all  good,  540 

Play'd  only  gambols  in  a  frantick  mood 
(Yet  charge  not  heavenly  skill  with  having  plann  d 
A  play  thing  world,  unworthy  of  his  hand  ;) 
Can  see  his  love,  though  secret  evil  lurks 
In  all  we  touch,  stamp 'd  plainly  on  his  works  j  545 

Deem  life  a  blessing  with  its  num'rous  woes, 
Nor  spurn  away  a  gift  a  G«  d  bestows. 


100  HOPE. 

Hard  task  indeed  o'er  arctick  seas  to  roam ! 

Is  hope  exotick  ?  grows  it  not  at  home  ? 

Yes,  but  an  object,  bright  as  orient  morn,  f  i50 

May  press  the  eye  too  closely  to  be  borne  ; 

A  distant  viftue  we  can  all  confess. 

It  hurts  our  pride,  and  moves  our  envy  less. 

Leuconomus,  (beneath  well-sounding  Greek, 
I  shir  a  name,  a  poet  must  not  speak,)  555 

Stood  pilloried  on  Infamy's  high  stage, 
And  bore  the  pelting  scorn  of  half  an  age : 
The  very  butt  of  Slander,  and  the  blot 
For  ev'ry  dart  that  Malice  ever  shot. 
The  man  that  mention'd  him  at  once  dismiss'd        560 
All  mercy  from  his  lips,  and  sneer'd  and  hiss'd  ; 
His  crimes  were  such  as  Sodom  never  knew, 
And  Perjury  stood  up  to  swear  all  true ; 
His  aim  was  mischief,  and  his  zeal  pretence. 
His  speech  rebellion  against  common  sense  ;  565 

A  knave,  when  tried  on  honesty's  plain  rule  ; 
And  when  by  that  of  reason,  a  mere  fool ; 
The  World's  best  comfort  was,  his  doom  was  pass  d 
Die  when  he  might,  he  must  be  damn'd  at  last. 

Now,  Truth,  perform  thine  office  ;  waft  aside       570 
The  curtain  drawn  by  Prejudice  and  Pride, 
Reveal,  (the  man  is  dead)  to  wond'ring  eyes, 
This  more  than  monster  in  his  proper  guise. 
He  lov'd  the  world  that  hated  him  ;  the  tear 
That  dropp'd  upon  his  Bible  was  sincere  :  475 

Assail'd  by  scandal  and  the  tongue  of  strife, 
His  only  answer  w?5  a  blameless  hfe  ; 
And  he  that  forg'd,  and  he  that  threw  the  dart, 
Had  each  a  brother's  int'rest  in  his  heart. 
Paul's  love  of  Christ,  and  steadiness  unbrib'd,  480 

Were  copied  close  in  him,  and  well  transcrib'd. 
He  follow'd  Paul ;  his  zeal  a  kindred  flame, 
His  apostolick  charity  the  same. 
Like  him,  cross'd  cheerfully  tempestuous  seas, 
Forsaking  country,  kindred,  friends,  and  ease  ',        585 


HOPE.  101 

Like  him  he  labour'd,  and  like  him  content 

To  bear  it,  suffer'd  shame  where'er  he  went. 

Blush  Calumny !  and  write  upon  his  tomb, 

If  honest  Eulogy  can  spare  thee  room, 

Thy  deep  repentance  of  thy  thousand  lies,  590 

Which,  aim'd  at  him,  have  pierc'd  th'  offended  skies  ! 

And  say,  Blot  out  my  sin,  confess'd,  deplor'd, 

Against  thine  image,  in  thy  saint,  O  Lord  '      * 

No  blinder  bigot,  I  maintain  it  still, 
Than  he  who  must  have  pleasure,  come  what  will : 
He  laughs,  whatever  weapon  Truth  may  draw,        596 
And  deems  her  sharp  artillery  mere  straw. 
Scripture  indeed  is  plain  ;  but  God  and  he 
On  Scripture  ground  are  sure  to  disagree  ; 
Some  wiser  rule  must  teach  him  how  to  live,  600 

Than  this  his  Maker  has  seen  fit  to  give ; 
Supple  and  flexible  as  Indian  cane, 
To  take  the  bend  his  appetites  ordain  ; 
Contriv'd  to  suit  frail  Nature's  crazy  case, 
And  reconcile  his  lust  with  saving  grace.  605 

By  this,  with  nice  precision  of  design, 
He  draws  upon  life's  map  a  zigzag  hne, 
That  shows  how  far  'tis  safe  to  follow  sin. 
And  where  his  danger  and  God's  wrath  begin. 
By  this  he  forms,  as  pleas'd  he  sports  along,  610 

His  well-pois'd  estimate  of  right  and  wrong  ; 
And  finds  the  modish  manners  of  the  day, 
Though  loose,  as  harmless  as  an  infant's  play. 

Build  by  whatever  plan  Caprice  decrees, 
With  what  materials,  on  what  ground  you  please ;   615 
YDur  hope  shall  stand  unblara'd,  perhaps  admir'd. 
If  not  that  hope  the  Scripture  has  requir'd. 
The  strange  conceits,  vain  projects,  and  wild  dreams, 
With  which  hypocrisy  for  ever  teems, 
(Though  other  follies  strike  the  publick  eye,  620 

And  raise  a  laugh,)  pass  unmolested  by  ; 
But  if,  unblamable  in  word  or  thought, 
A  man  arise,  a  man  whom  God  has  taught 
9* 


f02  HOPE. 

With  all  Elijah*s  dimity  of  tone, 

And  all  the  love  of  the  beloved  John,  625 

To  storm  the  citadels  they  build  in  air. 

And  smite  the  untemper'd  wall ;  'tis  death  to  spare 

To  sweep  away  all  refuges  of  lies, 

And  place,  instead  of  quirks  themselves  devise, 

Lama  sahactkani  before  their  eyes  ;  630 

To  prove,  that  without  Christ  all  gain  is  loss. 

All  hope  despair,  that  stands  not  on  his  cross ; 

Except  the  few  his  God  may  have  impress'd, 

A  tenfold  frenzy  seizes  all  the  rest. 

Throughout  mankind,  the  Christian  kind  at  lea&t. 
There  dwells  a  consciousness  in  ev'ry  breast,  636 

That  folly  ends  where  genuine  hope  begins. 
And  he  that  finds  his  Heav'n  must  lose  his  sins. 
Nature  opposes  with  her  utmost  force 
This  riving  stroke,  this  ultimate  divorce  }  640 

And,  while  religion  seems  to  be  her  view, 
Hates  with  a  deep  sincerity  the  true  : 
For  this,  of  all  that  ever  influenc'd  man, 
Since  Abel  worshipp'd,  or  the  world  began, 
This  only  spares  no  lust,  admits  no  plea,  645 

But  makes  him,  if  at  all,  completely  free  ; 
Sounds  forth  the  signal,  as  she  mounts  her  car, 
Of  an  eternal,  universal  war  ; 

Rejects  all  treaty,  penetrates  all  wiles,  649 

Scorns  with  the  same  indiff'rence  frowns  and  smiles  i 
Drives  through  the  realms  of  Sin,  where  Riot  reels, 
And  grinds  his  crown  beneath  her  burning  wheels ! 
Hence  all  that  is  in  man,  pride,  passion,  art, 
Pow'rs  of  the  mind,  and  feelings  of  the  heart, 
Insensible  of  Truth's  almighty  charms,  655 

Starts  at  her  first  approach,  and  sounds  to  arms ! 
While  Bigotry,  with  well-dlssemblod  fears. 
His  eyes  shut  fast,  his  fingers  in  his  ears. 
Mighty  to  parry  and  push  by  God's  word 
Witli  senseless  noise,  his  argument  the  sword,         660 


HOPE.  io:> 

Pretends  a  zeal  for  godliness  and  grace, 
And  spits  abhorrence  in  the  Christian's  face. 

Parent  of  Hope,  immortal  Truth  !  make  known 
Thy  deathless  wreaths  and  triumphs  all  thine  own : 
The  silent  progress  of  thy  pow'r  is  such,  6G5 

Thy  means  so  feeble,  and  despis'd  so  much, 
That  few  believe  the  wonders  thou  hast  wrought, 
And  none  can  teach  them,  but  whom  thou  hast  taught. 
O  see  me  sworn  to  serve  thee,  and  command 
A  painter's  skill  into  a  poet's  hand.  670 

That  while  I  trembling  trace  a  work  divine, 
Fancy  may  stand  aloof  from  the  design. 
And  light,  and  shade,  and  ev'ry  stroke  be  thine. 

If  ever  thou  hast  felt  another's  pain  : 
If  ever  when  he  sigh'd,  hast  sigh'd  again ;  675 

If  ever  on  thy  eyelid  stood  the  tear 
Tliat  pity  had  engender'd,  droo  one  here. 
This  man  was  happy — ^had  the  World's  gibd  word. 
And  with  it  ev'ry  joy  it  can  afford ; 
Friendship  and  love  seem'd  tenderly  at  strife,  680 

Which  most  should  sweeten  his  untroubled  life ; 
Politely  learn'd,  and  of  a  gentle  race. 
Good  breeding  and  good  sense  gave  all  a  grace, 
And  whether  at  the  toilette  of  the  fair 
He  laugh'd  and  trifled,  made  him  welcome  there  5   685 
Or  if  in  masculine  debate  he  shar'd, 
Ensur'd  him  mute  attention  and  regard.  * 

Alas,  how  chang'd  !  Expressive  of  his  mind, 
His  eyes  are  sunk,  arms  folded,  head  reclin'd  ; 
Those  awful  syllables.  Hell,  death,  and  sin,  690 

Though  whisper'd  plainly,  tell  what  works  within  , 
That  Conscience  there  performs  her  proper  part, 
And  writes  a  doomsday  sentence  on  his  heart ; 
Forsaking,  and  forsaken  of  all  friends. 
He  now  perceives  where  earthly  pleasure  enda        695 
Hard  task  !  for  one  who  lately  knew  no  care, 
And  harder  still  as  learn'd  beneath  despair 


104  HOPE. 

His  hours  no  longer  pass  unmark'd  away, 
A  dark  importance  saddens  ev'ry  day  ; 
He  hears  the  notice  of  the  clock  perplex'd,  700 

And  cries,  Perhaps  eternity  strikes  next } 
Sweet  musick  is  no  longer  musick  here, 
And  laughter  sounds  like  madness  in  his  ear  ; 
His  grief  the  world  of  all  her  pow'r  disarms, 
"Wine  has  no  taste,  and  beauty  has  no  charms;        705 
*  God's  holy  word,  once  trivial  in  his  view. 
Now  by  the  voice  of  his  experience  true, 
Seems,  as  it  is,  the  fountain  whence  alone 
Must  spring  that  hope  he  pants  to  make  his  own 

Now  let  the  bright  reverse  be  known  abroad ;       710 
Say  man's  a  worm,  and  pow'r  belongs  to  God. 

As  when  a  felon,  whom  liis  country's  laws 
Have  justly  doom'd  for  some  atrocious  cause, 
Expects  in  darkness  and  heart  chilling  fears, 
The  shameful  close  of  all  his  mispent  years  ;  715 

If  chance,  on  heavy  pinions  slowly  borne, 
A  tempest  usher  in  the  dreaded  morn. 
Upon  his  dungeon  walls  the  lightnings  play. 
The  thunder  seems  to  summon  him  away. 
The  warder  at  the  door  his  key  applies,  720 

Shoots  back  the  bolt,  and  all  his  courage  dies 
If  then,  just  then,  all  thoughts  of  mercy  lost, 
When  hope,  long  ling 'ring,  at  last  yields  the  ghost. 
The  sound  of  pardon  pierce  his  startled  ear, 
He  drops  at  once  his  fetters  and  his  fear  ;  725 

A  transport  glows  in  all  he  looks  and  speaks. 
And  the  first  thankful  tears  bedev/  his  cheeks. 
Joy,  far  superiour  joy,  that  much  outweighs 
The  comfort  of  a  few  poor  added  days. 
Invades,  possesses,  and  o'erwhelms  the  soul  730 

Of  him,  whom  Hope  has  with  a  touch  made  whole. 
'Tis  Heav'n,  all  Heav'n  descending  on  the  wings 
Of  the  glad  legions  of  the  King  of  kings  ; 
'Tis  more — 'tis  God  diffus'd  through  ev'ry  part, 
Tis  God  himself  triumphant  in  his  heart  735 


HOPE.  105 

O  welcome  now  the  Sun's  once  hated  light 
His  noonday  beams  were  never  half  so  bright. 
Not  kindred  minds  alone  are  call'd  t'  employ 
Their  hours,  their  days,  in  hst'ning  to  his  joy ; 
Unconscious  nature  all  that  he  surveys,  740 

RockS;  groves,  and  streams,  must   join  him    in    hli 

praise. 
These  are  thy  glorious  works,  eternal  Truth, 
The  scoff  of  wither'd  age  and  beardless  youth  ; 
These  move  the  censure  and  illib'ral  gria 
Of  fools  that  hate  thee  and  delight  in  sin :  745 

But  these    shall   last  when  night  has   quenched  th« 

pole, 
And  Heav'n  is  all  departed  as  a  scroll. 
And  when,  as  Justice  has  long  since  decreed, 
This  earth  shall  blaze,  and  a  new  world  succeed, 
Then  these  thy  glorious  works,  and  they  who  share 
That  hope,  which  can  alone  exclude  despair,  751 

Shall  live  exempt  from  weakness  and  decay. 
The  brightest  wonders  of  an  endless  day. 

Happy  the  bard,  (if  that  fair  name  belong 
To  him  that  blends  no  fable  with  his  song,)  755 

Whose  lines  uniting,  by  an  honest  art, 
The  faithful  monitor's,  and  poet's  part. 
Seek  to  delight,  that  they  may  mend  mankind, 
And  while  they  captivate,  inform  the  mind  : 
Still  happier,  if  he  till  a  thankful  soil,  760 

And  fruit  reward  his  honourable  toil  :  ^ 

But  happier  far,  who  comfort  those  that  wait 
To  hear  plain  truth  at  Judah's  hallow'd  gate : 
Their  language  simple,  as  their  manners  meek  ; 
No  shining  ornaments  have  they  to  seek  ;  765 

Nor  labour  they,  nor  time,  nor  talents  waste. 
In  sorting  flow'rs  to  suit  a  fickle  taste  ; 
But  while  they  speak  the  wisdom  of  the  skies, 
Which  art  can  only  darken  and  disguise, 
Th'  abundant  harvest,  recompense  divine,  770 

Repays  their  work — the  gleaning  only  mine. 


CHARITY. 


Q^o  nViil  majus  meliusve  ieirit 
Fata  doTiavere,  bonique  divi  ; 
Nee  dabuiit,  quamvis  redeant  in  aurum 
Tempora  priscum. 

HoR.lib.iv.Od.  2. 


FAIREST  and  foremost  of  the  train,  that  wait 
On  man's  most  dignified  and  happiest  state, 
Whether  we  name  thee  Charity  or  Love, 
Chief  grace  below,  and  all  in  all  above. 
Prosper,  (I  press  thee  with  a  pow'rful  plea,)  5 

A  task  I  venture  on,  impell'd  by  thee  : 
O  never  seen  but  in  thy  bless'd  effects. 
Or  felt  but  in  the  soul  that  Heav'n  selects ; 
Who  seeks  to  praise  thee,  and  to  make  thee  known 
To  other  hearts,  must  have  thee  in  his  own.  10 

Come,  prompt  me  with  benevolent  desires, 
Teach  me  to  kindle  at  thy  gentle  fires, 
And  though  disgrac'd  and  slighted,  to  redeem 
A  poet's  name,  by  making  thee  the  theme. 

God,  working  ever  on  a  social  plan,  lb 

liy  various  ties  attaches  man  to  man  : 
He  riiade  at  first,  though  free  and  unconfin'd, 
One  man  the  common  father  of  the  kind  ; 
That  ev'ry  tribe,  though  plac'd  as  he  sees  best, 
Where  seas  or  deserts  part  them  from  the  rest,         20 


CHARITY.  107 

Diflfring  in  language,  manners,  or  in  face, 

Might  feel  themselves  allied  to  all  the  race. 

When  Cook — lamented,  and  with  tears  as  just 

As  ever  mingled  with  heroick  dust, 

Steer'd  Britain's  oak  into  a  world  unknown,  25 

And  in  his  country's  glory  sought  his  own, 

Wherever  he  found  man,  to  nature  true. 

The  rights  of  man  were  sacred  in  his  view ; 

He  sooth'd  with  gifts,  and  greeted  with  a  smile, 

The  simple  native  of  the  new-found  isle  ;  90 

He  spurn'd  the  wretch  that  slighted  or  withstood        T 

The  tender  argument  of  kindred  blood, 

Nor  would  endure  that  any  should  control 

His  freeborn  brethren  of  the  southern  pole. 

But  though  some  nobler  minds  a  law  respect,         35 
That  none  shall  with  impunity  neglect, 
In  baser  souls  unnumber'd  evils  meet. 
To  thwart  its  influence  and  its  end  defeat. 
While  Cook  is  lov'd  for  savage  lives  he  sav'd, 
See  Cortez  odious  for  a  world  enslav'd !  40 

Where  wast  thou  then,  sweet  Charity  !  where  then 
Thou  tutelary  friend  of  helpless  men  ; 
Wast  thou  in  monkish  cells  and  nunn'ries  found, 
Or  building  hospitals  on  English  ground  ? 
No. — Mammon  makes  the  world  his  legatee  45 

Through  fear,  not  love  :  and  Heav'n  abhors  the  fee  • 
Wherever  found,  (and  all  men  need  thy  care,) 
Nor  age  nor  infancy  could  find  thee  there. 
The  hand  that  slew  till  it  could  slay  no  more. 
Was  glued  to  the  sword  hilt  with  Indian  gore.  50 

Their  prince,  as  justly  seated  on  his  tlirone. 
As  vain  imperial  Philip  on  his  own, 
Trick'd  out  of  all  his  royalty  by  art. 
That  stripp'd  him  bare,  and  broke  his  honest  heart, 
Died  by  the  sentence  of  a  shaven  priest,  55 

For  scorning  what  they  taught  him^to  detest. 
How  dark  the  veil  that  intercepts  the  blaze 
Of  Heav'n's  mysterious  purposes  and  ways ; 


108  CHARITY. 

God  stood  not,  though  he  seem'd  to  stand,  aloof; 
And  at  this  hour  the  conqu'ror  feels  the  proof;  60 

The  wreath  he  won  drew  down  an  instant  curse, 
The  fretting  plague  is  in  the  publick  purse, 
The  canker'd  spoil  corrodes  the  pining  state, 
Starv'd  by  that  indolence  their  mines  create. 

O  could  their  ancient  Incas  rise  again,  65 

How  would  they  take  up  Israel's  taunting  strain  ! 
Art  thou  too  fall'n,  Iberia  ?  Do  we  see 
The  robber  and  the  murderer  weak  as  we  ? 
Tliou,  that  hast  wasted  earth,  and  dar'd  despise 
Alike  the  wrath  and  mercy  of  the  skies,  70 

Thy  pomp  is  in  the  grave,  thy  glory  laid 
Low  in  the  pits  thine  avarice  has  made. 
We  come  with  joy  from  our  eternal  rest. 
To  see  th'  oppressor  in  his  turn  oppressed. 
Art  thou  the  god,  the  thunder  of  whose  hand  75 

Roird  over  £l11  our  desolated  land. 
Shook  principalities  and  kingdoms  down, 
And  made  the  mountains  tremble  at  his  frown  ? 
The  sword  shall  light  upon  thy  boasted  pow'rs, 
And  waste  them,  as  thy  sword  has  wasted  ours.        80 
Tis  thus  Omnipotence  his  law  fulfils, 
A.nd  Vengeance  executes  what  Justice  wills. 

Again — the  band  of  commerce  was  design'd 
T'  associate  all  the  branches  of  mankind  ; 
And  if  a  boundless  plenty  be  the  robe,  85 

Trade  is  the  golden  girdle  of  the  globe. 
Wise  to  promote  whatever  end  he  means, 
God  opens  fruitful  nature's  various  scenes  . 
Each  climate  needs  what  other  cUmes  produce, 
And  offers  something  to  the  gen'ral  use  ;  90 

No  land  but  listens  to  the  common  call, 
And  in  return  receives  supply  from  all. 
This  genial  intercourse,  and  mutual  aid. 
Cheers  what  were  else  a  universal  shade. 
Calls  nature  from  her  ivy-mantled  den,  95 

And  softens  human  rock- work  into  men. 


CHARITY.  m 

Ingenious  Art,  with  her  expressive  face, 

Steps  forth  to  fashion  and  refine  the  race  ; 

Not  only  fills  necessity's  demand, 

But  overcharges  her  capacious  hand :  100 

Capricious  taste  itself  can  crave  no  more 

Than  she  supplies  from  her  abounding  store . 

She  strikes  out  all  that  luxury  can  aak, 

And  gains  new  vigour  at  her  endless  task. 

Her's  is  the  spacious  arch,  the  shapely  spire,  105 

The  painter's  pencil,  and  the  poet's  lyre  ; 

From  her  the  canvass  borrows  light  and  shade, 

And  verse,  more  Izisting,  hues  that  never  fade. 

She  guides  the  finger  o'er  the  dancing  keys. 

Gives  difiiculty  all  the  grace  of  ease,  XIO 

And  pours  a  torrent  of  sweet  notes  around, 

Fiast  as  the  thirsting  ear  can  drink  the  sound. 

These  are  the  gifts  of  Art,  and  Art  thrives  most 
Where  Commerce  has  enrich'd  the  busy  coast.         ,^  j 
He  catches  all  improvements  in  his  flight,  jljjlfi 

Spreads  foreign  wonders  in  his  country's  siglMft^^j^  -ri 
Imports  what  others  have  invented  well,  .^^  q 

And  stirs  his  own  to  match  them,  or  excel*  ^  j^f^  jiO 
'Tis  thus  reciprocating,  each  with  each,,. .  .  -j-iffto  if  A 
Alternately  the  nations  learn  and  teach;  W^ 

While  Providence  enjoins  to  ev'ry  soul 
A  union  with  the  vast  terraqueous  whole. 

Heav'n  speed  the  canvass,  gallantly  unfurl'd 
To  furnish  and  accommodate  a  world, 
To  give  the  pole  the  produce  of  the  sun,  125 

And  knit  th'  unsocial  climates  into  one. — 
Soft  airs  and  gentle  heavings  of  the  wave 
Impel  the  fleet,  whose  errand  is  to  save, 
To  succour  wasted  regions,  and  replace 
The  smile  of  Opulence  in  Sorrow's  face. —  130 

Let  nothing  adverse,  nothing  unforeseen, 
Impede  the  bark,  that  ploughs  the  deep  serene. 
Charg'd  with  a  freight,  transcending  in  its  worth 
The  gems  of  India,  Nature's  rarest  birth. 

Vol.  I.  10 


no  CHARITY 

That  flies,  like  Gabriel  on  his  Lord's  commands,      135 

A  herald  of  God's  love  to  pagan  lands. 

But  ah  !  what  wish  can  prosper,  or  what  pray'r, 

For  merchants  rich  in  cargoes  of  despair, 

Who  drive  a  loathsome  traffick,  gauge,  and  span, 

And  buy  the  muscles  and  the  bones  of  man  ?  140 

The  tender  ties  of  father,  husband,  friend. 

All  bonds  of  nature  in  that  moment  end  ; 

And  each  endures,  while  yet  he  draws  his  breath, 

A  stroke  as  fatal  as  the  scythe  of  death. 

The  sable  warriour,  frantick  with  regret  145 

Of  her  he  loves,  and  never  can  forget, 

Loses  in  tears  the  far-receding  shore. 

But  not  the  thought,  that  they  must  meet  no  more  ; 

Depriv'd  of  her  and  freedom  at  a  blow, 

What  has  he  left,  that  he  can  yet  forego  ?  150 

Yes,  to  deep  sadness  sullenly  resign'd, 

He  feels  his  body's  bondage  in  his  mind ; 

Puts  off  his  gen'rous  nature  ;  and,  to  suit 

His  manners  with  his  fate,  puts  on  the  brute. 

O  most  degrading  of  all  ills,  that  wait  155 

On  man,  a  mourner  in  his  best  estate  ! 
All  other  sorrows  Virtue  may  endure. 
And  find  submission  more  than  half  a  cure  , 
Grief  is  itself  a  med'cine,  and  bestow'd 
T'  improve  the  fortitude  that  bears  the  load,  16y 

To  teach  the  wand'rer,  as  his  woes  increase. 
The  path  of  Wisdom,  all  whose  paths  are  peace  ; 
But  slav'ry  ! — Virtue  dreads  it  as  her  grave : 
Patience  itself  is  meanness  in  a  slave  ; 
Or  if  the  will  and  sov'reignty  of  God  165 

Bid  suffer  it  awhile,  and  kiss  the  rod. 
Wait  for  the  dawning  of  a  brighter  day, 
And  snap  the  chain  the  moment  when  you  may. 
Nature  imprints  upon  whate'er  we  see. 
That  has  a  heart  and  life  in  it,  Be  free :  170 

The  beasts  are  charter'd — neither  age  nor  force 
Can  quell  the  love  of  freedom  in  a  horse  * 


CHARITY.  Ul 

He  breaks  the  cord,  that  held  hhn  at  the  rack , 
And  conscious  of  an  unencumber'd  back, 
Snuffs  up  the  morning  air,  forgets  the  rein ;  175 

Loose  fly  his  forelock  and  his  ample  mane  ; 
Responsive  to  the  distant  neigh  he  neighs  ; 
Nor  stops  till,  overleaping  all  delays. 
He  finds  the  pasture  where  his  fellows  graze. 

Canst  thou,  and  honour'd  with  a  Christian  name, 
Buy  what  is  woman  born,  and  feel  no  shame  j  181 

Trade  in  the  blood  of  innocence,  and  plead 
Expedience  as  a  warrant  for  the  deed  ? 
So  may  the  wolf,  whom  famine  has  made  bold 
To  quit  the  forest  and  invade  the  fold  :  185 

So  may  the  ruffian,  xmo  with  ghostly  glide, 
Dagger  m  hand,  steals  close  to  your  bedside , 
Not  he,  but  his  emergence,  forc'd  the  door, 
He  found  it  inconvenient  to  be  poor. 
Has  God  then  giv'n  its  sweetness  to  the  cane,         190 
Unless  his  laws  be  trampled  on — in  vain  ? 
Built  a  orave  world,  which  cannot  yet  subsist, 
Unless  his  right  to  rule  it  be  dismiss'd  ? 
Impudent  blasphemy  !  So  Folly  pleads. 
And  Av'rice  being  judge,  with  ease  succeeds.  195 

But  grant  the  plea,  and  let  it  stand  for  just, 
That  man  makes  man  his  prey,  because  he  mtist ; 
Still  there  is  room  for  pity  to  abate 
And  sooth  the  sorrows  of  so  sad  a  state. 
A  Briton  knows,  or  if  he  knows  it  not,  200 

The  scripture  plac'd  within  his  reach,  he  ought, 
That  souls  have  no  discriminating  hue, 
Alike  important  in  their  Maker's  view  j 
That  none  are  free  from  blemish  since  the  fall, 
And  Love  divine  has  paid  one  price  for  all.  205 

The  wretch  that  works  and  weeps  without  relief. 
Has  one  that  notices  his  silent  grief. 
He,  from  whose  hands  alone  all  pow'r  proceeds, 
Ranks  its  abuse  among  the  foulest  deeds, 


119  CHARITY. 

Considers  all  injustice  with  a  frown  ;  210 

But  marks  the  man,  that  treads  his  fellow  down 

Begone — the  whip  and  bell  in  that  hard  hand 

Are  hateful  ensigns  of  usurp'd  command. 

Not  Mexico  could  purchase  kings  a  claim 

To  scourge  him,  weariness  his  only  blame  216 

Remember,  Heav'n  has  an  avenging  rod  ; 

To  smite  the  poor  is  treason  against  God. 

Ti«)uble  is  grudgingly,  and  hardly  brook'd, 

While  life's  sublimest  joys  are  overlooked  : 

We  wander  o'er  a  sun-burnt  thirsty  soil,  220 

Murm'ring  and  weary  of  our  daily  toil, 

Forget  t*  enjoy  the  palm-tree's  offer'd  shade, 

Or  taste  the  fountain  in  the  neighbouring  glade  : 

Else  who  would  lose  that  had  the  pow'r  to  improvo  . 

The  occasion  of  transmuting  fear  to  love  .'  225 

0  'tis  a  godlike  privilege  to  save, 
And  he  that  scorns  it  is  himself  a  slave. 
Inform  his  mind  ;  one  flash  of  heavenly  day 
Would  heal  his  heart,  and  melt  his  chains  away. 

"  Beauty  for  ashes"  is  a  gift  indeed,  230 

And  slaves,  by  tnith  enlarg'd,  are  doubly  freed. 

Then  would  he  say,  submissive  at  thy  feet. 

While  gratitude  and  love  made  service  sweet, 

My  dear  deliv'rer  out  of  hopeless  night, 

Whose  bounty  bought  me  but  to  give  me  light,        235 

1  was  a  bondman  on  my  native  plain. 

Sin  forg'd,  and  Ignorance  made  fast  the  chain , 

Thy  lips  have  shed  instruction  as  the  dew. 

Taught  me  what  path  to  shun,  and  what  pursue ; 

Farewell  my  former  joys  !  I  sigh  no  more  240 

For  Africa's  once  lov'd,  benighted  shore  ; 

Serving  a  benefactor  I  am  free  ; 

At  nty  best  home,  if  not  exiPd  from  thee. 

Some  men  make  gain  a  fountain,  whence  proceeds 

A  stream  of  lib'ral  and  heroick  deeds  ;  245 

The  swell  of  pity,  not  to  be  confin'd 

Within  the  scanty  limits  of  the  mind, 


CHARITY.  118 

Disdains  the  bank,  and  throws  the  golden  sands, 
A  rich  deposit  on  the  bord'ring  lands : 
These  have  an  ear  for  his  paternal  call,  250 

Who  makes  some  rich  for  the  supply  of  all ; 
God's  gift  with  pleasure  in  his  praise  employ ; 
And  Thornton  is  familiar  with  the  joy. 

O  could  I  worship  aught  beneath  the  skies, 
That  earth  has  seen,  or  fancy  can  devise,  255 

Thine  altar,  sacred  Liberty,  should  stand. 
Built  by  no  mercenary  vulgar  hand, 
With  fragrant  turf,  and  flow'rs  as  wild  and  fair 
As  ever  dress'd  a  bank,  or  scented  summer  air. 
Duly  as  ever  on  the  mountain's  height  260 

The  peep  of  morning  shed  a  dawning  light ; 
Again  when  Ev'ning  in  her  sober  vest 
Drew  the  gray  curtain  of  the  fading  west. 
My  soul  should  yield  thee  willing  thanks  and  praise, 
For  the  chief  blessings  of  my  fairest  days :  265 

But  that  were  sacrilege — ^praise  is  not  thine. 
But  his  who  gave  thee,  and  preserves  thee  mine  * 
Else  I  would  say,  and  as  I  spake  bid  fly 
A  captive  bird  into  the  boundless  sky. 
This  triple  realm  adores  thee — ^thoa  art  come  270 

From  Sparta  hither,  and  art  here  at  home. 
Wo  feel  thy  force  still  active,  at  this  hour 
Enjoy  immunity  from  priestly  pow'r. 
While  Conscience,  happier  than  in  ancient  years, 
Owns  no  superiour  but  the  God  she  fears.  276 

Propitious  spirit !  yet  expunge  a  wrong 
Thy  rights  have  suffer'd  and  our  land,  too  long. 
Teach  mercy  to  ten  thousand  hearts,  that  share 
The  fears  and  hopes  of  a  commercial  care. 
Prisons  expect  the  wicked,  and  were  built  280 

To  bind  the  lawless,  and  to  punish  guilt ; 
But  shipwreck,  earthquake,  battle,  fire,  and  flood, 
Are  mighty  mischiefs,  not  to  be  withstood  ; 
And  honest  Merit  stands  on  slipp'ry  groimd 
Whore  covert  griile  and  artifice  abound  285 

10* 


114  CHARITY. 

Let  just  Restraint,  for  publick  peace  designed, 
Chain  up  the  wolves  and  tigers  of  mankind  ; 
The  foe  of  virtue  has  no  claim  to  thee, 
But  let  insolvent  Innocence  go  free. 

Patron  of  else  the  most  despis'd  of  men,  296 

Accept  the  tribute  of  a  stranger's  pen ; 
Verse,  like  the  laurel,  its  immortal  meed. 
Should  be  the  guerdon  of  a  noble  deed  ; 
I  may  alarm  thee,  but  I  fear  the  shame, 
(Charity  chosen  as  mj  theme  and  aim,)  295 

I  must  incur,  forgetting  Howard's  name. 
Bless'd  with  all  wealth  can  give  thee,  to  resign 
Joys  doubly  sweet  to  feelings  quick  as  thine. 
To  quit  the  bliss  thy  rural  scenes  bestow, 
To  seek  a  nobler  amidst  scenes  of  wo,  300 

To  traverse  seas,  range  kingdoms,  and  bring  home. 
Not  the  proud  monuments  of  Greece  or  Rome, 
But  knowledge  such  as  only  dungeons  teach, 
And  only  sympathy  like  thine  could  reach  ; 
That  grief,  sequester'd  from  the  publick  stage,        305 
Might  smooth  her  feathers,  and  enjoy  her  cage ; 
Speaks  a  divine  ambition,  and  a  zeal. 
The  boldest  patriot  might  be  proud  to  feel. 
O  that  the  voice  of  clamour  and  debate. 
That  pleads  for  peace  till  it  disturbs  the  state,  310 

Were  hush'd  in  favour  of  thy  gen'rous  plea, 
The  poor  thy  clients,  and  Heav'n's  smile  thy  fee ! 
Philosophy,  that  does  not  dream  or  stray. 
Walks  arm  in  arm  with  Nature  all  his  way  : 
Compasses  earth,  dives  into  it,  ascends  315 

Whatever  step  Inquiry  recommends. 
Sees  planetary  wonders  smoothly  roll 
Round  other  systems  under  her  control, 
Drinks  wisdom  at  the  milky  stream  of  light 
That  cheers  the  silent  journey  of  the  night,  320 

And  brings  at  his  return  a  bosom  charg'd 
With  rich  instruction,  and  a  soul  enlarg*d 


CHAEITY.  115 

The  treasur'd  sweets  of  the  capacious  plan. 
That  Heav'n  spreads  wide  before  the  view  of  mail, 
All  prompt  his  pleas'd  pursuit,  and  to  pursue  325 

Still  prompt  him  with  a  pleasure  always  new  j 
He  too  has  a  connecting  pow'r,  and  draw 
Man  to  the  centre  of  the  common  cause. 
Aiding  a  dubious  and  deficient  sight 
With  a  new  medium  and  a  purer  light.  330 

All  truth  is  precious,  if  not  all  divine  ; 
And  what  dilates  the  pow'rs  must  needs  refine. 
He  reads  the  skies,  and,  watching  ev'ry  change, 
Provides  the  faculties  an  ample  range  ; 
And  wins  mankind,  as  his  attempts  prevail,      "        335 
A  prouder  station  on  the  gen'ral  scale. 
But  Reason  still,  unless  divinely  taught, 
Whate'er  she  learns,  learns  nothing  as  she  ought , 
The  lamp  of  revelation  only  shows. 
What  human  wisdom  cannot  but  oppose,  340 

That  man,  in  nature's  richest  mantle  clad, 
And  grac'd,  with  all  philosophy  can  add. 
Though  fair  without,  and  luminous  within, 
Is  still  the  progeny  and  heir  of  sin. 
Thus  taught,  down  falls  the  plumage  of  his  pride,    345 
He  feels  his  need  of  an  unerring  guide, 
And  knows  that  falling  he  shall  rise  no  more, 
Unless  the  pow'r  that  bade  him  stand,  restore. 
This  is  indeed  philosophy  ;  this  known 
Makes  wisdom,  worthy  of  the  name,  his  own  ;  350 

And  without  this,  whatever  he  discuss, 
Whether  the  space  between  the.stars  and  us. 
Whether  he  measure  earth,  compute  the  sea. 
Weigh  sunbeams,  carve  a  fly,  or  split  a  flea  ; 
The  solemn  trifler  with  his  boasted  skill  355 

Toils  much,  and  is  a  solemn  trifler  still : 
Blind  was  he  born,  and  his  misguided  eyes 
Grown  dim  in  trifling  studies,  blind  he  dies. 
Self-knowledge  truly  learn'd,  of  course  impliep 
The  rich  possession  of  a  nobler  prize  ;  360 


116  CHARITY 

For  self  to  self,  and  God  to  man  reveal'd, 

(Two  themes  to  Nature's  eye  for  ever  seal'd,) 

Are  taught  by  rays,  that  fly  with  equal  pace 

From  the  same  centre  of  enlight'ning  grace. 

Here  stay  thy  foot,  how  copious,  and  how  clear,       365 

Th'  o'erflowing  well  of  Charity  springs  here  ! 

Hark  !  'tis  the  musick  of  a  thousand  rills. 

Some  through  the  groves,  some  down  the  sloping  hills, 

Winding  a  secret  or  an  open  course. 

And  all  supphed  from  an  eternal  source.  370 

The  ties  of  nature  do  but  feebly  bind, 

And  Commerce  partially  reclaims  mankind ; 

Philosophy,  without  his  heavenly  guide. 

May  blow  up  self-conceit,  and  nourish  pride,  'i' 

But,  while  liis  province  is  the  reas'ning  part,  375 

Has  still  a  veil  of  midnight  on  his  heart ; 

"Tis  truth  divine,  exhibited  on  earth. 

Gives  Charity  her  being  and  her  birth. 

Suppose,  (when  thought  is  warm  and  fancy  flows, 
What  will  not  argument  sometimes  suppose  ?)         380 
An  isle  possess'd  by  creatures  of  our  kind. 
Endued  with  reason,  yet  by  nature  blind. 
Let  supposition  lend  her  aid  once  more, 
And  land  some  grave  optician  on  the  shore  : 
He  claps  his  lens,  if  haply  they  may  see,  385 

Close  to  the  part  where  vision  ought  to  be  ; 
But  finds,  that  though  his  tubes  assist  the  sight, 
They  cannot  give  it,  or  make  darkness  light. 
He  reads  wise  lectures,  and  describes  aloud 
A  sense  they  know  not,  to  the  wond'ring  crowd       390 
He  talks  of  light,  and  the  prismatick  hues, 
ks  men  of  depth  in  erudition  use  ; 
But  all  he  gains  for  his  harangue  is — ^Well, — 
^hat  monstrous  lies  some  travellers  will  tell ! 

The  soul,  whose  sight  all-quick  ning  grace  renews. 
Takes  the  resemblance  of  the  good  she  views,  396 

\s  diamonds  stripp'd  of  their  opaque  disguise, 
Reflect  the  noonday  glory  of  the  skies. 


CHARITY.  117 

She  speaks  of  him,  her  author,  guardian,  fnend, 

Whose  love  knew  no  beginning,  knows  no  end,        400 

In  language  warm  as  all  that  love  inspires, 

And  in  the  glow  of  her  intense  desires, 

Pants  to  communicate  he:  noble  fires. 

She  sees  a  world  stark  blind  to  what  employs 

Her  eager  thought,  and  feeds  her  flowing  joys ;       405 

Though  wisdom  hail  thein,  heedless  of  her  call, 

Flies  to  save  some,  and  feels  a  pang  for  all : 

Herself  as  weak  as  her  support  is  strong, 

She  feels  that  frailty  she  denied  so  Jong ; 

And,  from  a  knowledge  of  her  own  disease,  419 

Learns  to  compassionate  the  sick  she  sees. 

Here  see,  acquitted  of  all  vain  pretence, 

The  reign  of  genuine  Charity  commence. 

Though  scorn  repay  her  sympathetick  tears. 

She  still  is  kind  and  still  she  perseveres ;  415 

The  truth  she  loves  a  sightless  world  blaspheme, 

'Tis  childish  dotage,  a  delirious  dream. 

The  danger  they  discern  not,  they  deny ; 

Laugh  at  their  only  remedy,  and  die. 

But  still  a  soul  thus  touch'd  can  never  cease,  420 

Whoever  threatens  war,  to  speak  of  peace. 

Pore  in  her  aim,  and  in  her  temper  mild. 

Her  wisdom  seems  the  weakness  of  a  child : 

She  makes  excuses  where  she  might  condemn, 

Revil'd  by  those  that  hate  her,  prays  for  them  j        425 

Suspicion  lurks  not  in  her  artless  breast. 

The  worst  suggested,  she  believes  the  best ; 

Not  soon  provok'd,  however  stung  and  teaz'd, 

And,  if  perhaps  made  angry,  soon  appeas'd  ; 

She  rather  waves  than  will  dispute  her  right,  430 

And  injur'd,  makes  forgiveness  her  delight. 

Such  was  the  portrait  an  apostle  drew. 
The  bright  original  was  one  he  knew  ; 
Heav'n  held  his  hand,  the  likeness  must  be  true. 

When  one,  that  holds  communion  with  the  skies, 
Has  fill'd  his  urn  where  these  pure  waters  rise,        43tf 


118  CHARITY. 

And  once  more  mingles  with  us  meaner  things, 

'Tis  e'en  as  if  an  angel  shook  his  wings  ; 

Immortal  fragrance  fills  the  circuit  wide, 

That  tells  us  whence  his  treasures  are  supplied.       440 

So  when  a  ship,  well  freighted  with  the  stores 

The  Sun  matures  on  India's  spicy  shores. 

Has  dropp'd  her  anchor,  and  her  canvass  furl'd, 

In  some  safe  haven  of  our  western  world, 

'Twere  vain  inquiry  to  what  port  she  went,  445 

The  gale  informe  us,  laden  with  the  scent. 

Some  seek,  when,  queasy  conscience  has  its  qualms, 
To  lull  the  painful  malady  with  alms  ; 
But  charity  not  feign'd,  intends  alone 
Another's  good — theirs'  centres  in  their  own ;  450 

And  too  short-liv'd  to  reach  the  realms  of  peace, 
Must  cease  for  ever  when  the  poor  shall  cease. 
Flavia,  most  tender  of  her  own  good  name, 
Is  rather  careless  of  her  sister's  fame  : 
Her  superfluity  the  poor  supplies,  455 

But,  if  she  touch  a  character,  it  dies. 
The  seeming  virtue  weigh'd  against  the  vice. 
She  deems  all  safe,  for  she  has  paid  the  price  : 
No  charity  but  alms  ought  values  she, 
Except  in  porcelain  on  her  mantle-tree.  460 

How  many  deeds,  with  which  the  world  has  rung, 
From  Pride,  in  league  with  Ignorance,  have  sprung  ! 
But  God  o'errules  all  human  follies  still. 
And  bends  the  tough  materials  to  his  will. 
A  conflagration  or  a  wintry  flood,  465 

Has  left  some  hundreds  without  home  or  food ; 
Extravagance  and  Av'rice  shall  subscribe. 
While  fame  and  self-complacence  are  the  bril>e. 
The  brief  proclaim'd,  it  visits  ev'ry  pew, 
But  first  the  squire's  a  compliment  but  due  j  470 

With  slow  deliberation  he  unties 
His  glitt'ring  purse,  that  envy  of  all  eyes, 
And,  while  the  clerk  just  puzzles  out  the  psalm, 
Slides  guinea  behind  guinea  in  his  palm  ', 


CHARITY.  119 

Till  finding,  what  he  might  have  found  before,        475 

A  smaller  piece  amidst  the  precious  store, 

Pinch'd  close  between  his  finger  and  his  thumb, 

He  half  exhibits  and  then  drops  the  sum. 

Gold  to  be  sure  ! — Throughout  the  town  'tis  told 

How  the  good  squire  gives  never  less  than  gold.      480 

From  motives  such  as  his,  though  not  the  best, 

Springs  in  due  time  supply  for  the  distress'd ; 

Not  less  eflfectual  than  what  love  bestows, 

Except  that  office  clips  it  as  it  goes. 

But  lest  I  seem  to  sin  against  a  friend,  485 

And  wound  the  grace  I  mean  to  recommend, 
(Though  vice  derided  with  a  just  design 
Implies  no  trespass  against  love  divine,) 
Once  more  I  would  adopt  the  graver  style, 
A  teacher  should  be  sparing  of  his  smile,  490 

Unless  a  love  of  virtue  light  the  flame, 
Satire  is,  more  than  those  he  brands,  to  blame ; 
He  hides  behind  a  magisterial  air 
His  own  offences,  and  strips  others'  bare  : 
Affects  indeed  a  most  humane  concern,  495 

That  men,  if  gently  tutor'd,  will  not  learn  ;*^  ^ Jiiaq  u  J 
The  mulish  Folly,  not  to  be  reclaim 'd  (not  f>Fod  ' 

By  softer  methods,  must  be  made  asham'd  ; 
But,  (I  might  instance  in  St.  Patrick's  dean,) 
Too  oflen  rails  to  gratify  his  spleen.  500 

Most  sat'rists  are  indeed  a  publick  scourge  : 
Their  mildest  physick  is  a  farrier's  purge  ; 
Their  acid  temper  turns,  as  soon  as  stirr'd. 
The  milk  of  their  good  purpose  all  to  curd. 
Their  zeal  begotten,  as  their  works  rehearse,  505 

By  lean  despair  upon  an  empty  purse, 
The  wild  assassins  start  into  the  street, 
Prepar'd  to  poniard  whomsoe'er  they  meet. 
No  skill  in  swordmanship,  however  just. 
Can  be  secure,  against  a  madman's  thrust ;  510 

And  even  Virtue,  so  unfairly  match'd, 
Althoug/i  inmiorta],  may  be  prick'd  or  scratch'd 


120  CHARITY. 

When  Scandal  has  new-minted  an  cild  lie, 
Or  tax'd  invention  for  a  fresh  supply, 
'Tis  call'd  a  satire,  and  the  world  appears  615 

Gath'ring  around  it  with  erected  ears: 
A  thousand  names  are  toss'd  into  the  crowd ; 
Some  whisper'd  softly,. and  some  twang'd  aloud; 
Just  as  the  sapience  of  an  author's  brain 
Suggests  it  safe  or  dangerous  to  be  plain —  520 

Strange  ?  how  the  frequent  interjected  dash    - 
Quickens  a  market,  and  helps  off  the  trash ; 
Th'  important  letters  that  include  the  rest, 
Serve  as  a  key  to  those  that  are  suppress'd ; 
Conjecture  gripes  the  victims  in  his  paw,  52S 

The  world  is  charm'd,  and  Scrib  escapes  the  law. 
So,  when  the  cold  damp  shades  of  night  prevail, 
Worms  may  be  caught  by  either  head  or  tail ; 
Forcibly  drawn  from  many  a  close/recess, 
They  meet  with  little  pity,  no  redress  ;  530 

Plung'd  in  the  stream,  they  lodge  upon  thtj^inudy 
Tood  for  the  famish 'd  rovers  of  the  flood. 
;  All  zeal  for  a  reform,  that  gives  offence 
To  peace  and  charity,  is  mere  pretence  ; 
A  bold  remark,  but  wliich  if  well  appUed,  535 

Would  humble  many  a  tow*ring  poet's  pride. 
Perhaps  the  man  was  in  a  sportive  fit, 
And  had  no  other  play  place  for  his  wit  ; 
Perhaps  enchanted  with  the  love  of  fame, 
He  sought  the  jewel  in  his  neighbour's  fehamo ;        540 
Perhaps — whatever  end  he  might  pursue, 
The  cause  of  virtue  could  not  be  his  view. 
At  ev'ry  stroke  wit  flashes  in  our  eyes  ; 
The  turns  are  quick,  the  polish'd  points  surprise, 
But  shine  with  cruel  and  tremendous  charms,  545 

That,  while  they  please,  possess  us  with  alarms  j 
So  have  I  seen,  (and  hasten'd  to  the  sight 
On  all  the  wings  of  holiday  delight,) 
Where  stands  that  monument  of  ancient  pow*r, 
Nara'd  with  emphatick  dignity,  the  Tow'r,  550 


CHARITY.  121 

Guns,  halberts,  swords,  and  pistols,  great  and  smaU,  . 

In  starry  forms  dispos'd  upon  the  wall ; 

We  wonder,  as  wo  gazing  stand  below, 

That  brass  and  steel  should  make  so  fine  a  shOw  ; 

But  though  we  praise  th'  exatJt  designer's  skill,        55S 

Account  them  implements  of  mischief  still. 

No  works  shall  find  acceptance  in  that  day, 
When  all  disguises  shall  be  rent  away, 
That  square  not  truly  with  the  Scripture  plan, 
Nor  spring  from  love  to  God,  or  love  to  man.  560 

As  he  ordains  things  sordid  in  their  birth 
To  be  resolv'd  into  their  parent  earth  j 
And  though  the  soul  shall  seek  superiour  orbs, 
Whate'er  this  world  produces  it  absorbs; 
So  self  starts  nothing,  but  what  tends  apace  565 

Home  to  the  goal,  where  it  began  the  race. 
Such  as  our  motive  is,  our  aim  must  be  ; 
If  this  be  servile,  that  can  ne'er  be  free  : 
If  self  employ  us,  whatsoe'er  is  wrought, 
We  glorify  that  self,  not  him  we  ought ;  570 

Such  virtues  had  need  prove  their  own  reward, 
The  judge  of  all  men  owes  thera  no  regard. 
True  Charity,  a  plant  divinely  nurs'd. 
Fed  by  the  love  from  which  it  rose  at  first. 
Thrives  against  hope,  and  in  the  rudest  scene,         575 
Storms  but  enliven  its  unfading  green  , 
Exub'rant  is  the  shadow  it  supplies. 
Its  fruit  on  earth,  its  growth  above  the  skies. 
To  look  at  him  who  form'd  us  and  redeemed, 
So  glorious  now,  though  once  so  disesteem'd,  580 

To  see  a  God  stretch  forth  his  human  hand, 
T*  uphold  the  boundless  scenes  of  his  command  ', 
To  recollect  that  in  a  form  like  ours, 
He  bruis'd  beneath  his  feet  th'  infernal  pow'rs, 
Captivity  led  captive,  rose  to  claim  585 

The  wreath  he  won  so  dearly  in  our  name  ; 
That,  thron'd  above  all  height,  he  condescends 
To  call  the  few  that  trust  in  him  his  friends ; 

Vol.  I.  11 


122  CHARITY. 

That  in  the  heav'n  of  heav'ns,  that  space  ho  deems 

Too  scanty  for  th'  exertion  of  his  beams,  590 

And  shines  as  if  impatient  to  bestow 

Life  and  a  kingdom  upon  worms  below ; 

That  sight  imparts  a  never-dying  flame, 

Though  feeble  in  degree,  in  kind  the  same. 

Like  him  the  soul  thus  kindled  from  above  595 

Spreads  wide  her  arms  of  universal  love  : 

And,  still  enlarg'd  as  she  receives  the  grace, 

Includes  creation  in  her  close  embrace. 

Behold  a  christian  ! — and  without  the  fires 

The  founder  of  that  name  alone  inspires,  600 

Though  all  accomplishment,  all  knowledge  meet 

To  make  the  shining  prodigy  complete. 

Whoever  boasts  that  name — behold  a  cheat ! 

Were  love,  in  these  the  world's  last  doting  years 

As  frequent  as  the  want  of  it  appears,  605 

The  churches  warm'd,  they  would  no  longer  hold 

Such  frozen  figures,  stiff  as  they  are  cold ; 

Relenting  forms  would  lose  their  pow'r,  or  cease  j 

And  e'en  the  dipp'd  and  sprinkled  live  in  peace  : 

Each  heart  would  quit  its  prison  in  the  breast,         610 

And  flow  in  free  communion  with  the  rest. 

The  statesman,  skill'd  in  projects  dark  and  deep, 

Might  burn  his  useless  Machiavel,  and  sleep  ; 

His  budget  often  fill'd,  yet  always  poor. 

Might  swing  at  ease  behind  his  study  door,  615 

No  longer  prey  upon  our  annual  rents. 

Or  scare  the  nation  with  its  big  contents . 

Disbanded  legions  freely  might  depart. 

And  slaying  man  would  cease  to  be  an  art. 

No  learned  disputants  would  take  the  field,  620 

Sure  not  to  conquer,  and  sure  not  to  yield  j 

Both  sides  deceived,  if  rightly  understood, 

Pelting  each  other  for  the  publick  good. 

Did  charity  prevail,  the  press  would  prove 

A  vehicle  of  virtue,  truth,  and  love  ;  685 


CHARITY.  123 

And  1  might  spare  myself  the  pains  to  show 
What  few  can  learn,  and  all  suppose  they  know. 
Thus  have  I  sought  to  grace  a  serious  lay 
With  many  a  wild,  indeed,  but  flow'ry  spray, 
In  hopes  to  gain  what  else  I  must  have  lost,         630 
Th'  attention  pleasure  has  so  much  engross'd. 
But  if  unhappily  deceiv'd  I  dream, 
And  prove  too  weak  for  so  divine  a  theme, 
Let  Charity  forgive  me  a  mistake, 
That  zeal,  not  vanity,  has  chanc'd  to  make,  636 

And  spare  the  poet  for  his  subject's  sike. 


CONVERSATION. 


Nam  neqiu  me  tantum  venientis  sibihis  austri. 
Nee  percussajuvantjlitctu  tarn  litoraj  luc  qu(B 
Saxosas  inter  decuirant  Jlumina  inlles.        _  ,   ^ 
ViRG.  Eel.  6. 

THOUGH  nature  weigh  our  talents,  and  dispense 
Co  ev'ry  man  his  modicum  of  sense, 
A.nd  Conversation  in  its  better  part 
May  be  esteem'd  a  gift,  and  not  an  art, 
Yet  much  depends,  as  in  the  tiller's  toil,  6 

On  culture  and  the  sowing  of  the  soil. 
Words  learn'd  by  rote  a  parrot  may  rehearse, 
But  talking  is  not  always  to  converse  ; 
Not  m»re  distinct  from  harmony  divine. 
The  constant  creaking  of  a  country  sign.  10 

As  Alphabets  in  ivory  employ, 
Hour  after  hour,  the  yet  unlettered  boy. 
Sorting  and  puzzling  with  a  deal  of  glee 
Those  seeds  of  science,  callod  his  A  B  C ; 
So  language  in  the  mouths  of  the  adult,  15 

Witness  its  insignificant  result. 
Too  often  proves  an  implement  of  play, 
A  toy  to  sport  with,  and  pass  time  away. 
Collect  at  evening  what  the  day  brought  forth, 
Compress  the  sum  into  its  solid  worth,  20 


CONVERSATION.  125 

And  if  it  weigh  the  importance  of  a  fly, 

The  scales  are  false,  or  algebra  a  lie, 

Sacred  interpreter  of  human  thought, 

How  few  respect  or  use  thee  as  they  ought ! 

But  all  shall  give  account  of  ev'ry  wrong,  25 

Who  dare  dishonour  or  defile  the  tongue  ; 

Who  prostitute  it  in  the  caus6  of  vice. 

Or  sell  their  glory  at  the  market  price  ; 

Who  vote  for  hire,  or  point  it  with  lampoon, 

The  dear-bought  placeman,  and  the  cheap  buffoon.   30 

There  is  a  prurience  in  the  speech  of  some. 
Wrath  stays  him,  or  else  God  would  strike  them  dumb 
His  wise  forbearance  has  their  end  in  view, 
They  fill  their  measure,  and  receive  their  due. 
The  heathen  lawgivers  of  ancient  days,  35 

Names  almost  worthy  of  a  Christian's  praise, 
Would  drive  them  forth  from  the  resort  of  men, 
And  shut  up  ev'ry  satyr  in  his  den. 
O  come  not  ye  near  innocence  and  truth, 
Ye  worms  that  eat  into  the  bud  of  youth  ;  40 

Infectious  as  impure,  your  blighting  pow'r 
Taints  in  its  rudiments  the  promis'd  flow*r; 
Its  odour  perish'd,  and  its  charming  hue, 
Thenceforth  'tis  hateful,  for  it  smells  of  you. 
Not  e'en  the  vigorous  and  headlong  rage  45 

Of  adolescence,  or  a  firmer  age, 
Affords  a  plea  allowable  or  just, 
For  making  speech  the  pampercr  of  lust ; 
But  when  the  breath  of  age  commits  the  fault, 
*Tis  nauseous  as  the  vapour  of  a  vault.  50 

So  wither'd  stumps  disgrace  the  sylvan  scene, 
No  longer  fruitful,  and  no  longer  green ; 
The  sapless  wood,  divested  of  the  bark, 
Grows  fungous,  and  takes  fire  at  every  spark. 

Oaths  terminate,  as  Paul  observes,  all  strife—     55 
Some  men  have  surely  then  a  peaceful  life  : 
Whatever  subject  occupy  discourse, 
The  feats  of  Vestris,  or  the  naval  force, 
11  ♦ 


126  ^CONVERSATION. 

Asseveration  blustering  in  your  face 

Makes  contradiction  such  a  hopeless  xsase  :  ^60 

In  ev'ry  tale  they  tell,  or  false,  or  true, 

Well  known,  or  such  as  no  man  ever  knew, 

They  fix  attention,  heedless  of  your  pain, 

With  oaths  like  rivets  forc'd  into  the  brain ; 

And  e'en  when  sober  truth  prevails  throughout,        65 

They  swear  it,  till  affirmance  breeds  a  doubt. 

A  Persian,  humble  servant  of  the  sun, 

Who,  though  devout,  yet  bigotry  had  none, 

Hearing  a  lawyer,  grave  in  his  address, 

With  adjurations  ev'ry  word  impress,  70 

Suppos'd  the  man  a  bishop,  or  at  least, 

God's  name  so  much  upon  his  lips,  a  priest ! 

Bow'd  at  the  close  with  all  his  graceful  airs, 

And  begg'd  an  interest  in  his  frequent  pray'rs. 

Go  quit  the  rank  to  which  ye  stood  preferr'd,        75 
Henceforth  associate  in  one  common  herd  ; 
Religion,  virtue,  reason,  common  sense. 
Pronounce  your  human  form  a  false  pretence  ; 
A  mere  disguise,  in  which  a  devil  lurks. 
Who  yet  betrays  his  secret  by  his  works.  80 

Ye  pow'rs  who  rule  the  tongue,  if  such  there  are, 
And  make  colloquial  happiness  your  care. 
Preserve  me  from  the  thing  I  dread  and  hate, 
A  duel  in  the  form  of  a  debate, 

The  clash  of  arguments  and  jar  of  words,  85 

Worse  than  the  mortal  brunt  of  rival  swords. 
Decide  no  question  with  their  tedious  length, 
(For  opposition  gives  opinion  strength) 
Divert  the  champions  prodigal  of  breath. 
And  put  the  peaceably  dispos'd  to  death.  90 

0  thwart  me  not.  Sir  Soph,  at  ev'ry  turn. 
Nor  carp  at  ev'ry  flaw  you  may  discern  ; 
Though  syllogisms  hang  not  on  my  tongue, 

1  am  not  surely  always  in  the  wrong  : 

'Tis  hard  if  all  is  false  that  I  advance,  95 

A  fool  must  now  and  then  be  right  by  chance. 


CONVERSATION.  Ifi7 

Not  all  that  freedom  of  dissent  1  blame  j 
No — there  I  grant  the  privilege  I  claim. 
A  disputable  point,  is  no  man's  ground  ; 
Rove  where  you  please,  'tis  common  all  around.      100 
Discourse  may  want  an  animated — No, 
To  brush  the  surface,  and  to  make  it  flow ; 
But  still  remember,  if  you  mean  to  please, 
To  press  your  point  with  modesty  and  ease, 
The  mark  at  which  my  juster  aim  I  take,  105 

Is  contradiction  for  its  own  dear  sake. 
Set  your  opinion  at  whatever  pitch, 
Knots  and  impediments  make  something  hitch  , 
Adopt  his  own,  tis  equally  in  vain, 
Your  thread  of  argument  is  snapp'd  again ;  110 

The  wrangler,  rather  than  accord  with  you, 
Will  judge  himself  deceiv'd,  and  prove  it  too. 
Vociferated  logick  kills  me  quite, 
A  noisy  man  is  always  in  the  right — 
I  twirl  my  thumbs,  fall  back  into  my  chair,  115 

Fix  on  the  wainscoat  a  distressful  stare, 
And  when  I  hope  his  blimders  are  all  out,  , 
Reply  discreetly — To  be  sure — no  doubt ! 
Dubious  is  such  a  scrupulous  good  man — 
Yes — ^you  may  catch  him  tripping,  if  you  can.  120 

He  would  not  with  a  peremptory  tone, 
Assert  the  nose  upon  his  face  his  own  ; 
With  hesitation  admirably  slow, 
He  humbly  hopes — presumes — it  may  be  so. 
His  evidence,  if  he  were  call'd  by  law  125 

To  swear  to  some  enormity  he  saw. 
For  want  of  prominence  and  just  relief, 
Would  hang  an  honest  man,  and  save  a  thief. 
Through  constant  dread  of  giving  truth  offence, 
He  ties  up  all  his  hearers  in  suspense  ;  13(? 

Knows  what  he  knows,  as  if  he  knew  it  not ; 
Wliat  he  remembers,  seems  to  have  forgot  *. 
His  sole  opinion,  whatsoe'er  befall, 
Centering  at  last  in  having  none  at  all 


128  CONVERSATION. 

Yet,  though  ho  tease  and  balk  your  list'ning  ear,      135 
He  makes  one  useful  point  exceeding  clear ; 
Howe'er  ingenious  on  his  darling  theme 
A  sceptick  in  philosophy  may  seem, 
Reduc'd  to  practice,  his  beloved  rule 
Would  only  prove  him  a  consummate  fool :  140 

Useless  in  him  alike  both  brain  and  speech, 
Fate  having  plac'd  all  truth  above  liis  reach, 
His  ambiguities  his  total  sum, 
He  might  as  well  be  blind,  and  deaf,  and  dumb. 
Where  men  of  judgment  creep  and  feel  their  way,  145 
The  positive  pronounce  without  dismay  ; 
Their  want  of  light  and  intellect  supplied 
By  sparks  absurdity  strikes  out  of  pride. 
Without  the  means  of  knowing  right  from  wrong, 
They  always  are  decisive,  clear,  and  strong;  150 

Where  others  toil  with  philosophick  force. 
Their  nimble  nonsense  takes  a  shorter  course  ; 
Flings  at  your  head  conviction  in  the  lump. 
And  gains  remote  conclusions  at  a  jump : 
Their  own  defect  invisible  to  them,  155 

Seen  in  another,  they  at  once  condemn ; 
And,  though  self-idolized  in  ev'ry  case, 
Hate  their  own  likeness  in  a  brother's  face. 
The  cause  is  plain,  and  not  to  be  denied, 
The  proud  are  always  most  provok'd  by  pride,  160 

Few  competitions  but  engender  spite  ; 
And  those  the  most,  where  neither  has  a  right. 
TJie  point  of  honour  has  been  deem'd  of  use, 
To  teach  good  manners  and  to  curb  abuse ; 
Admit  it  true,  the  consequence  is  clear,  165 

Our  polish'd  manners  are  a  mask  we  wear, 
And,  at  the  bottom  barb'rous  still  and  rude, 
We  are  restrain'd,  indeed,  but  not  subdu'd. 
The  very  remedy,  however  sure, 

Springs  from  the  mischief  it  intends  to  cure,  170 

And  savage  in  its  principle  appears, 
Tried  as  it  should  be,  by  the  fruit  it  bears 


CONVERSATION.  129 

*Ti3  hard,  indeed  if  nothing  will  defend 
Mankind  from  quarrels  but  their  fatal  end  ; 
That  now  and  then  a  hero  must  decease,  175 

That  the  surviving  world  may  live  in  peace. 
Perhaps  at  last  close  scrutiny  may  show 
The  practice  dastardly,  and  mean,  and  low  ; 
That  men  engage  in  it  compelPd  by  forcOj 
And  fear,  not  courage,  is  its  proper  source,  180 

The  fear  of  tyrant  custom,  and  the  fear 
Lest  fops  should  censure  us,  and  fools  should  sneer. 
At  least  to  trample  on  our  Maker's  laws, 
And  hazard  life  for  any  or  no  cause, 
To  rush  into  a  fix'd  eternal  state  185 

Out  of  the  very  flames  of  rage  and  hate. 
Or  send  another  shiv'ring  to  the  bar 
With  all  the  guilt  of  such  unnatural  war, 
Whatever  Use  may  urge,  or  Honour  plead. 
On  Reason's  verdict  is  a  madman's  deed.  J 90 

Am  I  to  set  my  life  upon  a  throw, 
Because  a  bear  is  rude,  and  surly  ?    No — 
A  moral,  sensible,  and  well-bred  man 
Will  not  aflfront  mo  ;  and  no  other  can. 
Were  I  empowered  to  regulate  the  lists,  195 

They  should  encounter  with  well-loaded  fists  I 
A  Trojan  combat  would  be  somethmg  r..ew. 
Let  Dares  beat  Entellus  black  ana  biue  ; 
Then  each  might  show,  to  his  admirmg  friendS; 
In  honourable  bumps  his  rich  amends,  200 

And  carry  in  contusions  of  his  skull, 
A  satisfactory  receipt  in  full 

A  story,  in  which  native  humour  telgne. 
Is  often  useful,  always  entertains  : 
A  graver  fact,  enlisted  on  your  side,  -205 

May  furnish  illustration,  well  applied ; 
But  sedentary  weavers  of  long  tales 
Give  me  the  fidgets,  and  my  patience  fails. 
*Tis  the  most  asinine  employ  on  earth, 
To  hear  them  tell  of  parentage  and  birth,  210 


130  CONVERSATION. 

And  echo  conversations,  dull  and  dry, 

Embellished  with — He  said,  and  So  said  /. 

At  ev'ry  interview  their  route  the  same, 

The  repetition  makes  attention  lame  : 

We  bustle  up  with  unsuccessful  speed,  215 

And  in  the  saddest  part  cry — Droll  indeed 

The  path  of  narrative  with  care  pursue, 

Still  making  probabiUty  your  clew ; 

On  all  the  vestiges  of  truth  attend. 

And  let  them  guide  you  to  a  decent  end.  220 

Of  all  ambitions  man  may  entertain, 

The  worst,  that  can  invade  a  sickly  brain, 

Is  that,  which  angles  hourly  for  surprise. 

And  baits  its  hook  with  prodigies  and  lies. 

Credulous  infancy,  or  age  as  weak,  225 

Are  fittest  auditors  for  such  to  seek. 

Who  to  please  others  will  themselves  disgrace, 

Yet  please  not,  but  affront  you  to  your  face. 

A  great  retailer  of  this  curious  ware 

Having  unloaded  and  made  many  stare,  230 

Can  this  be  true  ? — an  arch  observer  cries. 

Yes,  (rather  mov'd)  I  saw  it  with  these  eyes ; 

Sir  !  I  believe  it  on  that  ground  alone  ; 

I  could  not,  had  I  seen  it  with  my  own. 
A  tale  should  be  judicious,  clear,  succinct ;  235 

The  language  plain,  and  incidents  well  link'd , 

Tell  not  as  new  what  ev'ry  body  knows, 

And,  new  or  old,  still  hasten  to  a  close  ; 

There,  cent'ring  in  a  focus  round  and  neat, 

Let  all  your  rays  of  information  meet.  240 

What  neither  yields  us  profit  nor  delight 

Is  like  a  nurse's  lullaby  at  night ; 

Guy,  Earl  of  Warwick  and  fair  Eleanor, 

Or  giant-killing  Jack,  would  please  me  more. 

The  pipe,  with  solemn  interposing  puff,  245 

Makes  half  a  sentence  at  a  time  enough  ; 

The  dozing  sages  drop  the  drowsy  strain. 

Then  pause,  and  puff— and  speak,  and  pause  again. 


CONVERSATION.  I^i' 

<Such  often,  like  the  tube  they  so  admire, 
Impoftant  triflers  .'  have  more  smoke  than  fire.        250 
Pernicious  weed  !  whose  scent  the  fair  annoys  ; 
Unfriendly  to  society's  chief  joys, 
Thy  worst  effect  is  banishing  for  hours 
The  sex,  whose  presence  civilizes  ours  : 
Thou  art  indeed  the  drug  a  gard'ner  wants,  255 

To  poison  vermin  that  infest  his  plants ; 
But  are  we  so  to  wit  and  beauty  blind, 
As  to  despise  the  glory  of  our  kind, 
And  show  the  softest  minds  and  fairest  forms 
As  little  mercy,  as  ho  grubs  and  worms  ?  260 

They  dare  not  wait  the  riotous  abuse, 
Thy  thirst-creating  steams  at  length  produce. 
When  wine  has  giv*n  indecent  language  birth, 
And  forc'd  the  floodgates  of  licentious  mirth  ; 
For  sea-born  Venus  her  attachment  shows  265 

Still  to  that  element  from  which  she  rose. 
And  with  a  quiet,  which  no  fumes  disturb, 
Sips  meek  infusions  of  a  milder  herb. 

Th'  emphatick  speaker  dearly  loves  t'  oppose, 
In  contact  inconvenient,  nose  to  nose,  870 

As  if  the  gnomon  on  his  neighbour's  phiz, 
Touch'd  with  a  magnet  had  attracted  his. 
His  whisper'd  theme,  dilated  and  at  large, 
Proves  after  all  a  wind-gun's  airy  charge, 
An  extract  of  his  diary — ^no  more,  275 

A  tasteless  journal  of  the  day  before. 
Ho  walk'd  abroad,  o'ertaken  in  the  rain, 
Call'd  on  a  friend,  drank  tea,  stepp'd  home  again, 
Resum'd  his  purpose,  had  a  world  of  talk 
With  one  he  stumbled  on,  and  lost  his  walk.  280 

I  interrupt  him  with  a  sudden  bow. 
Adieu,  dear  Sir,  lest  you  should  lose  it  now. 

I  cannot  talk  with  civet  in  the  room, 
A  fine  puss-gentleman  that's  all  perfume  ; 
The  sight's  enotigh — no  need  to  smell  a  beau —      285 
Who  thrusts  hii;  nose  into  a  raree  show  ? 


132  CONVERSATION. 

His  odoriferous  attempts  to  please 

Perhaps  might  prosper  with  a  swarm  of  bees  ;      * 

But  we  that  make  no  honey,  though  we  sting, 

Poets  are  sometimes  apt  to  maul  the  thing,  290 

'Tis  wrong  to  bring  into  a  mix'd  resort, 

What  make  some  sick,  and  others  d.  la  mort. 

An  argument  of  cogence,  we  may  say, 

Why  such  a  one  should  keep  himself  away. 

A  graver  coxcomb  we  may  sometimes  see,  295 

Quite  as  absurd,  though  not  so  light  as  he.; 
A  shallow  brain  behind  a  serious  mask^ 
An  oracle  within  an  empty  cask, 
The  solemn  fop ;  significant  and  budge  j 
A  fool  with  judges,. amongst  fools  a  judge  ',  300 

He  says  but  little,  and  that  little  said 
Owes  all  its  weight,  like  loaded  dice,  to  lead. 
His  wit  invites  you  by  his  looks  to  come. 
But  when  you  knock  it  never  is  at  home  ; 
'Tis  like  a  parcel  sent  you  by  the  stage,  305 

Some  handsome  present,  as  your  hopes  presage  ; 
'Tis  heavy,  bulky,  and  bids  fair  to  prove 
An  absent  friend's  fidelity  and  love  ;  * 

But  when  unpack'd  your  disappointment  groans 
To  find  it  stulTd  with  brickbats,  earth,  and  stones.   310 

Some  men  employ  their  health,  an  ugly  trick, 
In  making  known  how  oft  they  have  been  sick, 
And  give  us  in  recitals  of  disease 
A  doctor's  trouble,  but  without  the  fees ; 
Relate  how  many  weeks  they  kept  their  bed  ;  315 1 

How  an  emetick  or  cathartick  sped ; 
Nothing  is  slightly  touch'd,  much  less  forgot, 
Nose,  ears,  and  eyes,  seem  present  on  the  spot. 
Now  the  distemper,  spite  of  draught  or  pill, 
Victorious  seem'd,  and  now  the  doctor's  skill ;  "^0 

And  now — alas,  for  lonforeseen  mishaps  ' 
They  put  on  a  dsjup  nightcap  and  relapse ; 
They  thought  thoy  must  have  died,  they  were; so  bad; 
Their  peevish  hearers  almost  wish  they  had. 


CONVERSATION.  133 

Some  fretful  tempers  wince  at  ev'ry  touchy  325 

You  always  do  too  little  or  too  much ; 
You  speak  with  life,  in  hopes  to  entertain, 
Your  elevated  voice  goes  through  the  brain ; 
You  fall  at  once  into  a  lower  key, 
That's  worse — the  dronepipe  of  an  humblebee.        330 
The  southern  sash  admits  too  strong  a  light, 
You  rise  and  drop  the  curtain — now  'tis  night. 
He  shakes  with  cold — ^you  stiJ:  the  fire  and  striire 
To  make  a  blaze — ^that's  roastmg  him  alive. 
Serve  him  with  venison,  and  he  chooses  fish ;  335 

With  seal — that's  just  the  sort  he  would  not  wish. 
He  takes  what  he  at  first  profess'd  to  loathe, 
And  in  due  time  feeds  heartily  on  both  ; 
Yet  still  o'erclouded  with  a  constant  frown, 
He  does  not  swallow,  but  he  gulps  it  down.  340 

Your  hope  to  please  him  vain  on  ev*ry  plan. 
Himself  should  work  that  wonder,  if  he  can — 
Alas  !  his  efforts  double  his  distress, 
He  likes  yours  little,  and  his  own  still  less. 
Thus  always  teazing  others,  always  teaz'd,  345 

His  only  pleasure  is — to  be  displeas'd. 
I  pity  bashful  men,  who  feel  the  pain 
Of  fancied  scorn,  and  undeperv'd  disdain, 
And  bear  the  marks,  upon  a  blushing  faCe, 
Of  needless  shame,  and  self-impos'd  disgrace.  350 

Our  sensibilities  are  so  acute. 
The  fear  of  being  silent  makes  us  mute. 
We  sometimes  think  we  could  a  speech  produce 
Much  to  the  purpose,  if  our  tongues  were  loose  ; 
But  being  tried,  it  dies  upon  the  lip,  35ft 

Faint  as  a  chicken's  note  that  has  the  pip : 
Our  wasted  oil  unprofitably  burns. 
Like  hidden  lamps  in  old  sepulchral  urns, 
Few  Frenchmen  of  this  evil  have  complain'd ; 
It  seems  as  if  we  Britons  were  ordain 'd,  360 

By  way  of  wholesome  curb  upon  our  pride, 
To  fear  each  other,  fearing  none  beside. 
Vol.  I.  12 


134  CONVERSATION. 

The  cause  perhaps  inquiry  may  descry, 

Self-searching  with  an  introverted  eye, 

Conceal'd  within  an  unsuspected  part,  365 

The  vainest  corner  of  our  own  vain  heart : 

For  ever  aiming  at  the  world  s  esteem, 

Our  self-importance  ruins  its  own  scheme  ; 

In  other  eyes  our  talents  rarely  shown, 

Become  at  length  so  splendid  in  our  own,  370 

We  dare  not  risk  them  into  publick  view. 

Lest  they  miscarry  of  what  seems  their  due. 

True  modesty  is  a  discerning  grace, 

And  only  blushes  in  the  proper  place  ; 

But  counterfeit  is  blind,  and  skulks  through  fear,     375 

Where  'tis  a  shame  to  be  asham'd  t'  appear ; 

Humility  the  parent  of  the  first, 

The  last  by  vanity  produc'd  and  nurs'd. 

The  circle  form'd,  we  sit  in  silent  state, 

Like  figures  drawn  upon  a  dial  plate  ;  380 

Yes,  ma'am,  and  No,  ma'am,  utter'd  softly,  show 

Ev'ry  five  minutes  how  the  minutes  go  ; 

Each  individual,  sufTring  a  constraint. 

Poetry  may,  but  colours  cannot  paint ; 

As  if  in  close  committee  on  the  sky,  385 

Reports  it  hot  or  cold,  or  wot  or  dry  ; 

And  finds  a  changing  clime  a  happy  source 

Of  wise  reflection,  and  well-tim'd  discourse. 

We  next  inquire,  but  softly  and  by  stealth, 

Like  conservators  of  the  publick  health,  390 

Of  epidemick  throats,  if  such  there  are. 

And  coughs,  and  rheums,  and  phthisicks,  and  catarrh 

That  theme  exhausted,  a  wide  chasm  ensues, 

Fill'd  up  at  last  with  interesting  news, 

Who  danc'd  with  whom,  and  who  are  like  to  wed,  395 

And  who  is  hang'd,  and  who  is  brought  to  bed ; 

But  fear  to  call  a  more  important  cause, 

As  if 'twere  treason  against  English  laws. 

The  visit  paid,  with  ecstasy  we  come. 

As  from  a  seven  years'  transportation  home,  400 


CONVERSATION.  135 

And  there  resume  an  unembarrass'd  brow, 
Recov'ring  what  we  lost  we  know  not  how, 
The  faculties,  that  seem'd  reduc'd  to  nought, 
Expression  and  the  privilege  of  thought. 

The  reeking,  roaring  hero  of  the  chase,  405 

1  give  him  over  as  a  desp'rate  case. 
Physicians  write  in  hopes  to  work  a  cure. 
Never,  if  honest  ones,  when  death  is  sure  ; 
And  though  the  fox  he  follows  may  be  tam'd, 
A  mere  fox  follower  never  is  reclaim'd.  410 

Some  farrier  should  prescribe  his  proper  course, 
Whose  only  fit  companion  is  his  horse  ; 
Or  if  deserving  of  a  better  doom. 
The  noble  beast  judge  otherwise,  his  groom. 
Yet  e'^  the  rogue  that  serves  him,  tho'  he  stand    415 
To  take  his  honour's  orders,  cap  in  hand, 
Prefers  his  fellow  grooms  with  much  good  sense. 
Their  skill  a  truth,  his  master's  a  pretence. 
If  neither  horse  nor  groom  affect  the  squire, 
Where  can  at  last  liis  jockey  ship  retire  ?  420 

Oh  to  the  club,  the  scene  of  savage  joys, 
The  school  of  coarse  good  fellowship  and  noise  ; 
There  in  the  sweet  society  of  those 
Whose  friendship  from  his  boyish'years  he  ohose, 
Let  him  improve  his  talent  if  he  can,  425 

Till  none  but  beasts  acknowledge  him  a  man. 

Man's  heart  had  been  impenetrably  seal'd. 
Like  theirs  that  cleave  the  flood  or  graze  the  field, 
Had  not  his  Maker's  all-bestowing  hand 
Giv'n  him  a  soul,  and  bade  him  imderstand  ;  430 

The  reas'ning  pow'r  vouchsard  of  course  inferr'd 
The  pow'r  to  clothe  that  reason  with  his  word ; 
For  all  is  perfect  that  God  works  on  earth. 
And  he  that  gives  conception,  aids  the  birth. 
If  this  be  plain,  'tis  plainly  understood,  435 

What  uses  of  his  boon  the  giver  would. 
The  mind  despatch'd  upon  her  busy  toil, 
Should  range  where  Providence  has  bless'd  the  soil ; 


136  CONVERSATION. 

Visiting  ev'ry  flow'r  with  labour  meet, 

And  gath'ring  all  her  treasures  sweet  by  sweet  j       440 

She  should  imbue  the  tongue  with  what  she  sips, 

And  shed  the  balmy  blessing  on  the  lips, 

That  good  difFus'd  may  more  abundant  grow, 

And  speech  may  praise  the  pow'r  that  bids  it  flow. 

Will  the  sweet  warbler  of  the  livelong  night,  445 

That  fills  the  list'ning  lover  with  delight, 

Forget  his  harmony,  with  rapture  heard. 

To  learn  the  twitt'ring  of  a  meaner  bird  ? 

Or  make  the  parrot's  mimickry  his  choice, 

That  odious  libel  on  a  human  voice  ?  450 

No — Nature,  unsophisticate  by  man. 

Starts  not  aside  from  her  Creator's  plan  ; 

The  melody,  that  was  at  first  design'd  ^ 

To  cheer  the  rude  forefathers  of  mankind, 

Is  note  for  note  deliver'd  in  our  ears,  455 

In  the  last  scene  of  her  six  thousand  years. 

Yet  Fashion,  leader  of  a  chatt'ring  train, 

Whom  man  for  his  own  hurt  permits  to  reign. 

Who  shifts  and  changes  all  things  but  his  shape, 

And  would  degrade  her  votary  to  an  ape,  460 

The  fruitful  parent  of  abuse  and  wrong, 

Holds  a  usttrp'd  dominion  o'er  his  tongue  ; 

There  sits  and  prompts  him  with  his  own  disgrace, 

Prescribes  the  theme,  the  tone,  and  the  grimace. 

And,  when  accomplish'd  in  her  wayward  school,     465 

Calls  gentleman  whom  she  has  made  a  fool. 

*Tis  an  unalterable  fix'd  decree, 

That  none  could  frame  or  ratify  but  she, 

That  Heav'n  and  Hell,  and  righteousness  and  sin 

Snares  in  his  path,  and  foes  that  lurk  witliin,  470 

God  and  his  attributes,  (a  field  of  day 

Where  'tis  an  angel's  happiness  to  stray,) 

Fruits  of  his  love  and  wonders  of  his  might, 

Be  never  nam'd  in  ears  esteem'd  polite. 

That  he  who  dares,  when  she  forbids,  be  grave,       475 

Shall  stand  proscrib'd,  a  madman,  or  a  knave, 


CONVERSATION.  137 

A  close  designer  not  to  be  believ'd, 
Or,  if  excus'd  that  charge,  at  least  deceiv'd. 
Oh  folly  worthy  of  the  nurse's  lap, 
Give  it  the  breast,  or  stop  its  mouth  with  pap  t       480 
Is  it  incredible,  or  can  it  seem 
A  dream  to  any,  except  those  that  dream, 
That  man  should  love  his  Maker,  and  that  fire, 
Warming  his  heart,  should  at  his  lips  transpire : 
Know  then,  and  modestly  let  fall  your  eyes,  485 

And  veil  your  daring  crest  that  braves  the  skieh , 
That  air  of  insolence  affronts  your  God, 
You  need  his  pardon,  and  provoke  his  rod : 
Now,  in  a  posture  that  becomes  you  more 
Than  that  heroick  strut  assum'd  before,  490 

Know  your  arrears  with  ev'ry  hour  accrue 
For  mercy  shown,  while  wrath  is  justly  due. 
The  time  is  short,  and  there  are  souls  on  earth, 
Though  future  pain  may  serve  for  present  mirth, 
Acquainted  with  the  woes,  that  fear  or  shame,        495 
By  Fashion  taught,  forbade  them  once  to  name, 
And  having  felt  the  pangs  you  deem  a  jest, 
Have  prov'd  them  truths  too  big  to  be  express 'd. 
Go  seek  on  revelation's  hallow'd  ground. 
Sure  to  succeed,  the  remedy  they  found  ;  500 

Touch'd  by  that  pow'r  that  you  have  dar'd  to  mock, 
That  makes  seas  stable,  and  dissolves  the  rock, 
Your  heart  shall  yield  a  hfe-renewing  stream. 
That  fools,  as  you  have  done,  shall  call  a  dream. 

It  happen'd  on  a  solemn  eventide,  J>05 

Soon  after  He  that  was  our  Surety  died. 
Two  bosom  friends,  each  pensively  inclin'd, 
The  scene  of  all  those  sorrows  left  behind, 
Sought  their  own  village,  busied  as  they  went 
In  musings  worthy  of  the  great  event :  510 

They  spake  of  him  they  lov'd,  of  Iiim  whose  life, 
Though  blameless,  had  incurr'd  perpetual  strife. 
Whose  deeds  had  left,  in  spite  of  hostile  arts, 
A  deeo  memorial  graven  on  their  hearts. 
12  » 


138  CONVERSATION. 

The  recollection,  like  a  vein  of  ore  5L& 

The  farther  trac'd,  enrich'd  them  still  the  more  , 

They  thought  him,  and  they  justly  thought  him,  one 

Sent  to  do  more  than  he  appear'd  t'  have  done  ; 

T'  exalt  a  people,  and  to  place  them  high 

Above  all  else,  and  wonder'd  he  sliould  die.  520 

Ere  yet  they  brought  their  journey  to  an  end, 

A  stranger  join'd  them,  courteous  as  a  friend, 

And  ask'd  them,  with  a  kind  engaging  air, 

What  their  affliction  was,  and  begg'd  a  share. 

Inform 'd,  he  gather 'd  up  the  broken  thread,  525 

And  truth  and  wisdom  gracing  aH  he  said, 

Explain'd,  illustrated,  and  search'd  so  well 

The  tender  theme  on  which  they  chose  to  dwell, 

That  reaching  home,  the  night,  they  said,  is  near, 

We  must  not  now  be  parted,  sojourn  here.  530 

The  new  acquaintance  soon  became  a  guest, 

And,  made  so  welcome  at  their  simple  feast, 

He  bless'd  the  bread,  but  vanish'd  at  the  word, 

And  left  them  both  exclaiming,  'Twas  the  Lord !" 

Did  not  our  hearts  feel  all  he  deign'd  to  say —         535 

Did  they  not  burn  within  us  by  the  way  ? 

Now  theirs  was  converse,  such  as  it  behoves 
Man  to  maintain,  and  such  as  God  approves  ; 
Their  view,  indeed  were  indistinct  and  dim, 
But  yet  successful  being  aim'd  at  him.  540 

Christ  and  liis  character  their  only  scope. 
Their  object,  and  their  subject,  and  their  hope. 
They  felt  what  it  became  them  much  to  feel. 
And  wanting  him  to  loose  the  sacred  seal, 
Found  him  as  prompt,  as  their  desire  was  true,        545 
To  spread  the  new-born  glories  in  their  view. 
Well — what  are  ages  and  the  lapse  of  time 
Match'd  against  truths  as  lasting  as  sublime  ^ 
Can  length  of  years  on  God  himself  exact  ? 
Or  make  that  fiction,  which  was  once  a  fact  ?  650 

No— marble  and  recording  brass  decay. 
And  like  the  graver's  mem'ry  pass  away  ; 


CONVERSATION.  139 

The  works  of  man  inherit,  as  is  just, 
Their  author's  frailty,  and  return  to  dust ; 
But  truth  divine  for  ever  stands  secure,  555 

Its  head  is  guarded  as  its  base  is  sure ; 
Fix'd  in  the  rolling  flood  of  endless  years, 
The  pillar  of  th'  eternal  plan  appears, 
The  raving  storm  and  dashing  waves  defies, 
Built  by  that  architect  who  built  the  skies.  560 

Hearts  may  be  found  that  harbour,  at  this  hour. 
That  love  of  Christ  and  all  its  quick'ning  pow'r ; 
And  lips,  unstain'd  by  folly  or  by  strife, 
Whose  wisdom  drawn  from  the  deep  well  of  life. 
Tastes  of  its  healthful  origin,  and  flows  565 

A  Jordan  for  th*  ablution  of  our  woes. 
O  days  of  Heav'n,  and  nights  of  equal  pr^iise, 
Serene  and  peaceful  as  those  heavenly  days, 
When  souls  drawn  upwards  in  communion  sweety 
Enjoy  the  stillness  of  some  close  retreat,  670 

Discourse,  as  if  releas'd  and  safe  at  home, 
Of  dangers  pass'd,  and  wonders  yet  to  come^ 
And  spread  the  sacred  treasures  of  the  breast 
Upon  the  lap  of  covenanted  rest. 

What,  always  dreaming  over  heavenly  things,     575 
Like  angel  heads  in  stone  with  pigeon  wings  r 
Canting  and  whining  out  all  day  the  word. 
And  half  the  night  ?  fanatick  and  absurd ! 
Mine  be  the  friend  less  frequent  in  his  pray'rs. 
Who  makes  no  bustle  with  his  soul's  affairs,  580 

Whose  wit  can  brighten  up  a  wintry  day. 
And  chase  the  splenetick  dull  hours  away ; 
Content  on  earth  in  earthly  things  to  shdne. 
Who  waits  for  Heav'n  ere  he  becomes  divine, 
Leaves  saints  t'  enjoy  those  altitudes  they  teach,     585 
And  plucks  the  fruit  plac'd  more  within  his  reach. 

Well  spoken.  Advocate  of  sin  and  shame, 
Known  by  thy  bleating.  Ignorance  thy  name. 
Is  sparkling  wit  the  world's  exclusive  right. 
The  fix'd  fee  simple  of  the  vain  and  light  ?  690 


140  CONVERSATION. 

Can  hopes  of  Heav'n,  bright  prospects  of  an  hour. 

That  come  to  waft  us  out  of  sorrow's  pow'r, 

Obscure  or  quench  a  faculty  that  finds 

Its  happiest  soil  in  the  serenest  minds  ? 

Religion  curbs  indeed  its  wanton  play,  595 

And  brings  the  trifler  under  rig'rous  sway, 

But  gives  it  usefulness  unknown  before, 

And,  purifying,  makes  it  shine  the  more. 

A  Christian's  wit  is  inoffensive  light, 

A  beam  that  aids,  but  never  grieves  the  sight ;         600 

Vig'rous  in  age  as  in  the  flush  of  youth, 

'Tis  always  active  on  the  side  of  truth : 

Temp'rance  and  peace  insure  its  healthful  state, 

And  make  it  brightest  at  its  latest  date. 

Oh  I  have  seen,  (nor  hope  perhaps  in  vain,  605 

Ere  life  go  down,  to  see  such  sights  again,) 

A  vet'ran  warriour  in  the  Christian  field, 

Who  never  saw  the  sword  he  could  not  wield  j 

Grave,  without  dulness,  learned  without  pride, 

Exact,  yet  not  precise  ;  though  meek,  keen-ey'd  ;    610 

A  man  that  would  have  foil'd  at  their  own  play 

A  dozen  would-be 's  of  the  modern  day  ; 

Who,  Jivhen  occasion  justified  its  use, 

Had  wit  as  bright  as  ready  to  produce ; 

Could  fetch  from  records  of  an  earlier  age,  615 

Or  from  philosophy's  enlighten'd  page. 

His  rich  materials,  and  regale  your  ear 

With  strains  it  was  a  privilege  to  hear  : 

Yet  aboie  all,  his  luxury  supreme, 

And  his  chief  glory,  was  the  Gospel  theme  ;  620 

There  he  was  copious  as  old  Greece  or  Rome, 

His  happy  eloquence  seem'd  there  at  home. 

Ambitious  not  to  shine  or  to  excel. 

But  to  treat  justly  what  he  lov'd  so  well. 

It  moves  me  more  perhaps  than  folly  ought,         625 
When  some  green  heads,  as  void  of  wit  as  thought, 
Suppose  themselves  monopolists  of  sense, 
And  wiser  men's  ability  pretence. 


CONVERSATION.  141 

Though  time  still  wear  us,  and  we  must  grow  old, 
Such  men  are  not  forgot  as  soon  as  cold,  630 

Their  fragrant  memory  will  outlast  their  tomb^ 
Embalm'd  for  ever  in  its  own  perfume. 
And  to  say  truth,  though  in  its  early  prime, 
And  when  unstain'd  with  any  grosser  crime^ 
Youth  has  a  sprightliness  and  fire  to  boast,  G2^ 

That  in  the  valley  of  decline  are  lost, 
And  Virtue  with  peculiar  charms  appears, 
Crown'd  with  the  garland  of  life's  blooming  years ; 
Yet  age,  by  long  experience  well  inform'd, 
Well  read,  well  temper'd,  with  religion  warm'd,      640 
That  fire  abated,  which  impels  rash  youth, 
Proud  of  his  speed  to  overshoot  the  truth, 
As  time  improves  the  grape's  authentick  juice, 
Mellows  and  makes  the  speech  more  fit  for  use, 
And  claims  a  rev'rence  in  its  short 'ning  day,  645 

That  'tis  an  honour  and  a  joy  to  pay. 
The  fruits  of  age  less  fair,  are  yet  more  sound. 
Than  those  a  brighter  season  pours  around ; 
And  like  the  stores  autumnal  suns  mature, 
Through  wintry  rigours  unimpair'd  endure  650 

What  is  fanatick  phrcnzy,  scorn'd  so  much, 
And  dreaded  more  than  a  contagious  touch  ? 
I  grant  it  dajig'rous,  and  approve  your  fear. 
That  fire  is  catching  if  you  draw  too  near ; 
But  sage  observers  oft  mistake  the  flame,  665 

And  give  true  piety  that  odious  name. 
To  tremble,  (as  the  creature  of  an  hour 
Ought  at  the  view  of  an  almighty  pow'r,) 
Before  his  presence,  at  whose  awful  throne 
All  tremble  in  all  worlds,  except  our  own,  660 

To  supplicate  his  mercy,  love  his  ways. 
And  prize  them  above  pleasure,  wealth,  os  praiae, 
Though  common  sense,  allow'd  a  casting  voice, 
And  free  from  bias,  must  approve  the  choice, 
Convicts  a  man  fanatick  in  th'  extreme,  665 

And  wild  as  madness  in  the  world's  esteem. 


142  CONVERSATION. 

But  that  disease,  when  soberly  defin'd, 

Is  the  false  fire  of  an  o'erheated  mind: 

It  views  the  truth  with  a  distorted  eye, 

And  either  warps  or  lays  it  useless  by ;  670 

'Tis  narrow,  selfish,  arrogant,  and  draws 

Its  sordid  nourishment  from  man's  applause , 

And  while  at  heart  sin  unrelinquish'd  lies, 

Presumes  itself  chief  fav'rite  of  the  skies. 

'Tis  such  a  light  as  putrefaction  breeds  675 

In  fly-blown  flesh,  whereon  the  maggot  feeds, 

Shines  in  the  dark,  but  usher'd  into  day, 

The  stench  remains,  the  lustre  dies  away. 

True  bliss,  if  man  may  reach  it,  is  compos*d 
Of  hearts  in  union  mutually  disclosed :  680 

And,  farewell  else  all  hope  of  pure  delight. 
Those  hearts  should  be  reclaim'd,  renew'd,  upright* 
Bad  men,  profaning  friendship's  hallow'd  name, 
Form,  in  its  stead,  a  covenant  of  shame  : 
A  dark  confederacy  against  the  laws  685 

Of  virtue  and  religion's  glorious  cause  : 
They  build  each  other  up  with  dreadful  skill, 
As  bastions  set  point  blank  against  God's  will ; 
Enlarge  and  fortify  the  dread  redoubt. 
Deeply  resolv'd  to  shut  a  Saviour  out ;  690 

Call  legions  up  from  Hell  to  back  the  deed, 
And,  curs'd  with  conquest,  finally  succeed. 
But  souls  that  carry  on  a  bless'd  exchange 
Of  joys  they  meet  with  in  their  heav'nly  range, 
And  with  a  fearless  confidence  make  known  695 

The  sorrows  sympathy  esteems  its  own, 
Daily  derive  increasing  light  and  force 
From  such  communion  in  their  pleasant  cotirse, 
Feel  less  the  journey's  roughness  ana  its  length,  - 

Meet  their  opposers  with  united  strength,  700 

And,  one  in  heart,  in  int'rest,  and  design, 
Gird  up  each  other  to  the  race  divine. 

But  Conversation,  choose  what  theme  we  may. 
And  chiefly  when  religion  leads  the  way. 


CONVERSATION.  143 

Should  flow  like  waters  after  summer  showers,         705 

Not  as  if  rais'd  by  mere  mechanick  pow'rs. 

The  Christian,  in  whose  soul,  though  now  distress'd, 

Lives  the  dear  thought  of  joys  he  once  possess'd, 

When  all  his  glowing  language  issu'd  forth 

With  God's  deep  stamp  upon  its  current  worth,       710 

Will  speak  without  disguise,  and  must  impart, 

Sad  as  it  is,  his  imdissembling  heart, 

Abhors  constraint,  and  dares  not  feign  a  zeal, 

Or  seem  to  boast  a  fire  he  does  not  feel. 

The  song  of  Sion  is  a  tasteless  thing,  715 

Unless,  when  rising  on  a  joyful  wing, 

The  soul  can  mix  with  the  celestial  bands, 

And  give  the  strain  the  compass  it  demands. 

Strange  tidings  these  to  tell  a  world  who  treat 
AH  but  their  own  experience  as  deceit !  720 

Will  they  believe,  though  credulous  enough 
To  swallow  much  upon  much  weaker  proof, 
That  there  are  bless'd  inliabitants  on  earth, 
Partakers  of  a  new  ethereal  birth, 
Their  hopes,  desires,  and  purposes  estrang'd  725 

From  things  terrestrial  and  divinely  chang'd, 
Their  very  language  of  a  kind  that  speaks 
The  soul's  sure  int'rest  in  the  good  she  seeks ; 
Who  deal  with  Scripture,  its  importance  felt 
As  Tully  with  philosophy  once  dealt,  730 

And  in  the  silent  watches  of  the  night, 
And  through  the  scenes  of  toil-renewing  light, 
The  social  walk,  or  soUtary  ride. 
Keep  still  the  dear  companion  at  their  side  ? 
No — shame  upon  a  self-disgracing  age,  735 

God's  work  may  serve  an  ape  upon  a  stage 
With  such  a  jest,  as  fiU'd  with  helUsh  glee 
Certain  invisibles  as  shrewd  as  he ; 
But  veneration  or  respect  finds  none. 
Save  from  the  subject  of  that  work  alone.  740 

The  world  grown  old,  her  deep  discernment  shows, 
Claps  spectacles  on  her  sagacious  nose, 


144  CONVERSATION. 

Peruses  closely  the  true  Christian's  facej^'if  wo%  hlooi^ 

And  finds  it  a  mere  mask  of  sly  grimace  ;    '      -'  —  -    ' 

Usurps  God's  office,  lays  his  bosom  bare,  745 

And  finds  hypocrisy  close  lurking  there. 

And  serving  God  herself  througli  mere  constraint| 

Concludes  his  unfeign'd  love  of  him  a  feint. 

And  yet  God  knows,  look  human  nature  through, 

(And  in  due  time  the  world  shall  know  it  too,)         760 

That  since  the  flow'rs  of  Eden  felt  the  blast, 

That  after  man's  defection  laid  all  waste, 

JSincerity  tow'rds  the  heart-searching  God 

Has  made  the  new-born  creature  her  abode. 

Nor  shall  be  found  in  unregen'rate  souls,  755 

Till  the  last  fire  burn  all  between  the  poles. 

Sincerity  !  why  'tis  his  only  pride, 

Weak  and  imperfect  in  all  grace  beside  j 

He  knows  that  God  demands  his  heart  entire, 

And  gives  him  all  liis  just  demands  require.  760 

Without  it  his  pretensions  were  as  vain, 

As,  having  it,  he  deems  the  world's  disdain ; 

That  great  defect  would  cost  him  not  alone 

Man's  favourable  judgment,  but  his  own ; 

His  birthright  shaken,  and  no  longer  clear  765 

Than  while  his  conduct  proves  his  heart  sincere. 

Retort  the  charge,  and  let  the  world  be  told 

She  boasts  a  confidence  she  does  not  hold  ; 

That,  conscious  of  her  crimes,  she  feels  instead 

A  cold  misgiving,  and  a  killing  dread  :  770 

That  while  in  health  the  ground  of  her  support 

Is  madly  to  forget  that  life  is  short ; 

That  sick  she  trembles,  knowing  she  must  die. 

Her  hope  presumption,  and  her  faith  a  lie  ; 

That  while  she  dotes,  and  dreams  that  she  believes, 

She  mocks  her  Maker,  and  herself  deceives ;  776 

Her  utmost  reach  historical  absent, 

The  doctrines  warp'd  to  what  they  never  meant ; 

That  truth  itself  is  in  her  head  as  dull 

And  useless  as  a  candle  in  a  skull ;  ,  780 


CONVERSATION.  145 

And  all  her  love  of  God  a  groundless  claim, 
A  trick  upon  the  canvass,  painted  flame. 
Tell  her  again,  the  sneer  upon  her  face, 
And  all  her  censures  of  the  work  of  grace, 
A  re  insincere,  meant  only  to  conceal  785 

A  dread  she  would  not,  yet  is  forc'd  to  feel ; 
That  in  her  heart  the  Christian  she  reveres, 
And  while  she  seems  to  scorn  him,  only  fears. 

A  poet  does  not  work  by  square  or  line, 
As  smiths  and  joiners  perfect  a  design  ;  790 

At  least  we  moderns,  our  attention  less. 
Beyond  the  example  of  our  sires  digress. 
And  claim  a  right  to  scamper  and  run  wide, 
Wherever  chance,  caprice,  or  fancy  guide. 
The  world  and  1  fortuitously  met ;  795 

1  ow'd  a  trifle,  and  have  paid  the  debt ; 
She  did  me  wrong,  I  recompens'd  the  deed, 
And  having  struck  the  balance,  now  proceed. 
Perhaps,  however,  as  some  years  have  pass*d 
Since  she  and  I  convers'd  together  last,  800 

And  I  have  liv'd  recluse  in  rural  shades, 
Which  seldom  a  distinct  report  pervades, 
Great  changes  and  new  manners  have  occt$rr*d. 
And  bless'd  reforms,  that  I  have  never  heard, 
And  she  may  now  be  as  discreet  and  wise  805 

As  once  absurd  in  all  discerning  eyes. 
Sobriety,  perhaps,  may  now  be  found 
Where  once  intoxication  press'd  the  ground : 
The  subtle  and  injurious  may  be  just, 
And  he  grown  chaste  that  was  the  slave  of  luist ;      810 
Arts  once  esteem'd  may  be  with  shame  dismiss'd  ; 
Charity  may  relax  the  miser's  fist ; 
The  gamester  may  have  cast  his  cards  away, 
Forgot  to  curse  and  only  kneel  to  pray. 
It  has  indeed  been  told  me,  (with  what  weight,        815 
How  credibly,  'tis  hard  for  me  to  state,) 
That  fables  old,  that  seem'd  for  ever  mute. 
Revived  are  hast'ning  into  fresh  repute, 

Vol.  I.  13 


146  CONVERSATION. 

And  gods  and  goddesses,  discarded  long 

Like  useless  lumber,  or  a  stroller's  song,  820 

Are  bringing  into  vogue  their  heathen  train, 

And  Jupiter  bids  fair  to  rule  again  ; 

That  certain  feasts  are  instituted  now, 

Where  Venus  hears  the  lovers'  tender  vow  ; 

That  all  Olympus  through  the  country  roves,  825 

To  consecrate  our  few  remaining  groves ; 

And  Echo  learns  politely  to  repeat 

The  praise  of  names  for  ages  obsolete  ; 

That  having  prov'd  the  weakness,  it  should  seem 

Of  revelation's  ineffectual  beam,  830 

To  bring  the  passions  under  sober  sway, 

And  give  the  moral  springs  their  proper  play, 

They  mean  to  try  what  may  at  last  be  done, 

By  stout  substantial  gods  of  wood  and  stone, 

And  whether  Roman  rites  may  not  produce  835 

The  virtues  of  old  Rome  for  English  use. 

May  such  success  attend  the  pious  plan^ 

May  Mercury  once  more  embellish  man, 

Grace  him  again  with  long  forgotten  arts. 

Reclaim  his  taste,  and  brighten  up  his  parts,  840 

Make  him  athletick  as  in  days  of  old, 

Learn'd  at  the  bar,  in  the  peloBstra  bold, 

Divest  the  rougher  sex  of  female  airs. 

And  teach  the  softer  not  to  copy  theirs  : 

The  change  shall  please,  nor  shall  it  matter  aught 

Who  works  the  wonder,  if  it  be  but  wrought.  846 

'Tis  time,  however,  if  the  case  stand'thus. 

For  us  plain  folks,  and  all  who  side  with  us. 

To  build  our  altar,  confident  and  bold. 

And  say  as  stern  Elijah  said  of  old,  850 

The  strife  now  stands  upon  a  fair  award, 

If  Israel's  Lord  be  God,  then  serve  the  Lord 

If  he  be  silent,  faith  is  all  a  whim, 

Then  Baal  is  the  God,  and  worship  him. 

Digression  is  so  much  in  modern  use,  855 

Thought  is  so  rare,  and  fancy  so  profuse, 


CONVERSATION.  147 

Some  never  seem  so  wide  of  their  intent, 

As  when  returning  to  the  theme  they  meant ; 

As  mendicants,  whose  business  is  to  roam, 

Make  every  parish  but  their  own  their  home.  860 

Though  such  continual  zigzags  in  a  book, 

Such  drunken  reelings  have  an  awkward  look, 

And  I  had  rather  creep  to  what  is  true, 

Than  rove  and  stagger  with  no  mark  in  view ; 

Yet  to  consult  a  little  seem'd  no  crime,  865 

The  freakish  humour  of  the  present  time  : 

But  now  to  gather  up  what  seems  dispers'd^ 

And  tpuch  the  subject  I  design'd  at  first, 

May  prove,  though  much  beside  the  rules  of  art 

Best  for  the  publick,  and  my  wisest  part.  870 

And  first,  let  no  man  charge  me,  that  I  mean 

To  clothe  in  sable  ev'ry  social  scene. 

And  give  good  company  a  face  severe. 

As  if  they  met  around  a  father's  bier  ; 

For  tell  some  men,  that  pleasure  all  their  bent,        875 

And  laughter  all  their  work,  is  life  mispent ; 

Their  wisdom  bursts  into  this  sage  reply, 

Then  mirth  is  sin,  and  we  should  always  cfy. 

To  find  the  medium  asks  some  share  of  wit, 

And  therefore  'tis  a  mark  fools  never  hit.  880 

But  though  life's  valley  be  a  vale  of  tears, 

A  brighter  scene  beyond  that  vale  appears, 

Whose  glory  with  a  light  that  never  fades, 

Shoots  between  scatter'd  rocks  and  opening  shadei. 

And  while  it  shows  the  land  the  soul  desires,  885 

The  language  of  the  land  she  seeks  inspires. 

Thus  touch'd,  the  tongue  receives  a  sacred  cure 

Of  all  that  was  absurd,  profane,  impure  ; 

Held  within  modest  bounds,  the  tide  of  speech 

Pursues  the  course  that  truth  and  nature  teach ;      890 

No  longer  labours  merely  to  produce 

The  pomp  of  sound  or  tinkle  without  use  ; 

Where'er  it  winds,  the  salutary  stream. 

Sprightly  and  fresh,  enriches  every  thome, 


148  CONVERSATION. 

While  all  the  happy  man  possess'd  before,  896 

The  gift  of  nature  or  the  classick  store, 

Is  made  subservient  to  the  grand  design 

For  which  Heav'n  form'd  the  faculty  divine. 

So,  should  an  idiot,  virhile  at  large  he  strays, 

Find  the  sweet  lyre  on  which  an  artist  plays,  900 

"With  rash  and  awkward  force  the  chords  he  shakes, 

And  grins  with  wonder  at  the  jar  he  makes ; 

But  let  the  wise  and  well-instructed  hand 

Once  take  the  shell  beneath  his  just  command, 

In  gentle  sounds  it  seem'd  as  it  complain'd  906 

Of  the  rude  injuries  it  late  sustain'd, 

Vill  tun'd  at  length  to  some  immortal  song. 

It  lounds  Jehovah's  name,  and  pours  his  praise  alo^g. 


RETIREMENT. 


studiisjlorens  ignobilis  ott, 

ViRG.  Georg.  Lib.  4. 

HACKNET'D  in  business,  wearied  at  that  oar 
Which  thousands,  once  fast  chained  to,  quit  no  more 
But  which,  when  life  at  ebb  runs  weak  and  low, 
All  wish,  or  seem  to  wish,  they  could  forego ; 
The  statesman,  lawyer,  merchant,  man  of  trade,         5 
Pants  for  the  refuge  of  some  rural  shade, 
Where,  all  his  long  anxieties  forgot 
Amid  the  charms  of  a  sequester'd  spot, 
Or  recollected  only  to  gild  o'er. 

And  add  a  smile  to  what  was  sweet  before,  10 

He  may  possess  the  joys  he  thinks  he  sees, 
Lay  his  old  age  upon  the  lap  of  ease. 
Improve  the  remnant  of  his  wasted  span. 
And,  having  liv'd  a  trifler,  die  a  man. 
Thus  Conscience  pleads  her  cause  within  the  breast, 
Though  long  rebell'd  against,  not  yet  suppress'd,       16 
And  calls  a  creature  form'd  for  God  alone. 
For  Heav'n's  high  purposes,  and  not  his  own, 
Calls  him  away  from  selfish  ends  and  aims. 
From  what  debilitates  and  what  inflames,  20 

From  cities  humming  with  a  restless  crowd, 
Sordid  as  active,  ignorant  as  loud, 
13* 


150  KETIREMENT. 

Whose  highest  praise  is  that  they  live  in  yaixii 

The  dupes  of  pleasure,  or  the  slaves  of  gain. 

Whore  works  of  man  are  cluster'd  close  aroundt        85 

And  works  of  God  are  hardly  to  be  found, 

To  regions  where  in  spite  of  sin  and  wo, 

Traces  of  Eden  are  still  seen  below, 

Where  mountain,  river,  forest,  field,  and  grove, 

Remind  him  of  liis  Maker's  power  and  love.  30 

*Tis  well  if,  look'd  for  at  so  late  a  day, 

In  the  last  scene  of  such  a  senseless  play, 

True  wisdom  will  attend  his  feeble  call, 

And  grace  his  action  ere  the  curtain  fall. 

Souls  that  have  long  despis'd  their  heavenly  birth,    35 

Their  wishes  all  impregnated  with  earth. 

For  threescore  years  employ'd  with  ceaseless  care 

In  catching  smoke  and  feeding  upon  air. 

Conversant  only  with  the  ways  of  men, 

Rarely  redeem  the  short  remaining  ten.  40 

Invet'rate  habits,  choke  th'  unfruitful  heart. 

Their  fibres  penetrate  its  tend'rest  part, 

And  draining  its  nutritious  pow'rs  to  feed 

Their  noxious  growth,  starve  ev'ry  better  seed. 

Happy,  if  full  of  days — ^but  happier  far,  45 

If,  ere  we  yet  discern  life's  evening  star. 
Sick  of  the  service  of  a  world  that  feeds 
Its  patient  drudges  with  dry  chaff  and  weeds, 
We  can  escape  from  custom's  idiot  sway, 
To  serve  the  Sov'reign  we  were  born  t'  obey.  50 

Then  sweet  to  muse  upon  his  skill  displayed, 
(Infinite  skill,)  in  all  that  he  has  made  ! 
To  trace  in  nature's  most  minute  design 
The  signature  and  stamp  of  pow'r  divine, 
Contrivance  intricate,  express'd  with  ease,  55 

Where  unassisted  sight  no  beauty  sees, 
The  shapely  limb  and  lubricated  joint, 
Within  the  small  dimensions  of  a  point, 
Muscle  and  nerve  miraculously  spun, 
His  mighty  work,  who  speaks  and  it  is  done,  60 


RETIREMENT.  151 

Th*  invisible  in  things  scarce  seen  roveal'd, 

To  whom  an  atom  is  an  ample  field ; 

To  wonder  at  a  thousand  insect  forms, 

These  hatch'd  and  those  resuscitated  worms, 

New  life  ordain'd  and  brighter  scenes  to  share,  65 

Once  prone  on  earth,  now  buoyant  upon  air. 

Whose  shape  would  make  them,  had  they  bulk  and 

size. 
More  hideous  foes  than  fancy  can  devise  ; 
With  helmet  heads,  and  dragon  scales  adorn'd. 
The  mighty,  myriads,  now  securely  scorn'd,  70 

Would  mock  the  majesty  of  man's  high  birth, 
Despise  his  bulwarks,  and  unpeople  earth  • 
Then  with  a  glance  of  fancy  to  survey. 
Far  as  the  faculty  can  stretch  away. 
Ten  thousand  rivers  pour'd  at  his  command  75 

From  urns  that  never  fail,  through  ev'ry  land ; 
This  like  a  deluge  with  impetuous  force. 
Those  winding  modestly  a  silent  course  } 
The  cloud-surmounting  Alps,  the  fruitful  vales ; 
Seas,  on  which  ev'ry  nation  spreads  her  sails ;  80 

The  sun,  a  world  whence  other  worlds  drink  light, 
The  crescent  moon,  the  diadem  of  night ; 
Stars  countless,  each  in  his  appointed  place 
Fast  anchor'd  in  the  deep  abyss  of  space — 
At  such  a  sight  to  catch  the  poet's  flame,  85 

And  with  a  rapture  like  his  own  exclaim. 
These  are  thy  glorious  works,  thou  source  of  good, 
How  dimly  seen,  how  faintly  understood  ! 
Thine,  and  upheld  by  thy  paternal  care. 
This  universal  frame,  thus  wondrous  fair :  JO 

Thy  pow'r  divine,  and  bounty  beyond  thought, 
Ador'd  and  prais'd  in  all  that  thou  hast  wrought 
Absorb 'd  in  that  immensity  I  see, 
I  shrink  abas'd,  and  yet  aspire  to  thee  ; 
Instruct  me,  guide  me  to  that  heavenly  day,  95 

Thy  words  more  clearly  than  thy  works  display 


fr- 


i52  RETIREMENT 

That,  while  thy  truths  my  grosser  thoughts  refine, 
I  may  resemble  thee,  and  call  thee  mine. 

Oh  blest  proficiency !  supassing  all 
That  men  erroneously  their  glory  call,  100 

The  recompense  that  arts  or  arms  can  yield, 
The  bar,  the  senate,  or  the  tented  field. 
Compar'd  with  this  sublimest  life  below, 
Ye  kings  and  rulers,  what  have  courts  to  ghow  *' 
Thus  studied,  ns'd,  and  consecrated  thus,  105 

On  earth,  what  is,  seems  fiirm'd  indeed  fi^r  us . 
Not  as  the  plaything  of  a  fro  ward  child, 
Fretful  unless  diverted  and  beguil'd, 
Much  less  to  feed  and  fan  the  fatal  fires 
Of  pride,  ambition,  or  impure  desires  ;  110 

But  as  a  scale,  by  which  the  soul  ascends 
From  mighty  means  to  more  important  ends, 
Securely,  though  by  steps  but  rarely  trod, 
Mounts  from  inferiour  beings  up  to  God, 
And  sees,  by  no  fallacious  light  or  dim,  115 

Earth  made  for  man,  and  man  himself  for  him. 

Not  that  I  mean  t'  approve,  or  would  enforce^ 
A  superstitious  and  monastick  course  : 
Truth  is  not  local,  God  alike  pervades- 
And  fills  the  world  of  traffick,  and  the  shades,  120 

And  may  be  fear'd  amidst  the  busiest  scenes, 
Or  scorn'd  where  business  never  intervenes. 
But  'tis  not  easy  with  a  mind  like  ours, 
Conscious  of  weakness  in  its  noblest  pow'rs. 
And  in  a  world  where  other  ills  apart,  125 

The  roving  eye  misleads  the  careless  heart. 
To  limit  Thought,  by  nature  prone  to  stray 
Wherever  freaiish  Fancy  points  the  way  ; 
To  bid  the  pleadings  of  self-love  be  still. 
Resign  our  own,  and  seek  our  Maker's  will ;  130 

To  spread  the  page  of  Scripture,  and  compare 
Our  conduct  with  the  laws  engraven  there ; 
To  measure  all  that  passes  in  the  breast, 
Faithfully,  fairly,  by  that  sacred  test 


RETIREMENT.  153 

To  dive  into  the  secret  deeps  within,  135 

To  spare  no  passion  and  no  fav'rite  sin, 
And  sear  en  the  themes  important  above  all, 
Ourselves  and  our  recov'ry  from  our  fall. 
But  leisure,  silence,  and  a  mind  releas'd 
From  anxious  thoughts  how  wealth  may  be  increase, 
How  to  secure,  in  some  propitious  hour,  41 

The  point  of  int'rest  or  the  post  of  pow'r, 
A  soul  serene,  and  equally  retired, 
From  objects  too  much  dreaded  or  desir'd, 
Safe  from  the  clamours  of  perverse  dispute,  145 

At  least  are  friendly  to  the  great  pursuit. 

Op'ning  the  map  of  God's  extensive  plan, 
We  find  a  little  isle,  this  life  of  man  ; 
Eternity's  unknown  expanse  appears 
Circling  around  and  limiting  his  years.  150 

The  busy  race  examine  and  explore 
Each  creek  and  cavern  of  the  dang'rous  shore, 
With  care  collect  what  in  their  eyes  excels. 
Some  shining  peobles,  and  some  weeds  and  shells ; 
Thus  laden,  dream  that  they  are  rich  and  great,      155 
And  happiest  he  that  groans  beneath  his  weight : 
The  waves  o'ertake  them  in  their  serious  play, 
And  ev'ry  hour  sweep  multitudes  away  ; 
They  shrink  and  sink,  survivors  start  and  weep, 
Pursue  their  sport,  and  follow  to  the  deep.  160 

A  few  forsake  the  throng  ;  with  lifted  eyes 
Ask  wealth  of  Heav'n,  and  gain  a  real  prize — 
Truth,  wisdom,  grace,  and  peace  like  that  above, 
Seal'd  with  his  signet,  whom  they  serve  and  love, 
Scorn'd  by  the  rest,  with  patient  hope  they  wait      165 
A  kind  release  from  their  imperfect  state, 
And  unregretted  are  soon  snatch'd  away 
From  scenes  of  sorrow  into  glorious  day. 

Now  these  alone  prefer  a  life  recluse, 
Who  seek  retirement  for  its  proper  use  ;  170 

The  love  of  change,  that  lives  in  ev'ry  breast, 
Genius  and  temper,  and  desire  of  rest, 


54  RETIREMENT. 

Discordant  motives  in  one  centre  moet,^ 

And  each  inclines  its  votary  to  retreat.    , 

Some  minds  by  nature  are  averse  to  noise,  ITS 

And  hate  the  tumult  half  the  world  enjoys, 

The  lure  of  av'rice,  or  the  pompous  prize, 

That  courts  display  before  ambitious  eyes  , 

The  fruits  that  hang  on  pleasure's  flow'ry  stem, 

■Whate'er  enchants  them,  are  no  snares  to  them.       180 

To  them  the  deep  recess  of  d\i£ky  groves, 

Or  forest,  where  the  deer  securely  roves. 

The  fall  of  waters,  and  the  song  of  birds, 

And  hills  that  echo  to  the  distant  herds, 

Are  luxuries  excelling  all  the  glare  185 

The  world  can  boast,  and  her  chief  fav'rites  share 

With  eager  step  and  carelessly  array'd, 

For  such  a  cause  the  poet  seeks  the  shade  ; 

From  all  he  sees  he  catches  new  delight, 

Plcas'd  Fancy  claps  her  pinions  at  the  sight ;  190 

The  rising  or  the  setting  orb  of  day, 

The  clouds  that  flit,  or  slowly  float  away. 

Nature  in  all  the  various  shapes  she  wears. 

Frowning  in  storms,  or  breathing  gentle  airs, 

The  snowy  robe  her  wintry  state  assumes,  195 

Her  summer  heats,  her  fruits,  and  her  perfumes, 

All,  all  alike  transport  the  glowing  bard. 

Success  in  rhyme  his  glory  and  reward. 

O  Nature  !  whose  Elysian  scenes  disclose 

His  bright  perfections,  at  whose  word  they  rose,      200 

Next  to  that  pow'r  who  form'd  thee  and  sustains, 

Be  thou  the  great  inspirer  of  my  strains. 

Still  as  I  touch  the  lyre,  do  thou  expand 

Thy  genuine  charms,  and  guide  an  artless  hand, 

That  I  may  catch  a  fire  but  rarely  known,  205 

Give  useful  light,  though  I  should  miss  renown ; 

And  poring  on  thy  page,  whose  ev'ry  line 

Bears  proof  of  an  intelligence  divine. 

May  feel  a  heart  enrich'd  by  what  it  pays, 

That  builds  its  glory  on  its  Maker's  praise  210 


RETIREMENT.  155 

Wo  to  the  man,  whose  wit  disclaims  its  uso, 
Glitt'ring  in  vain,  or  only  to  seduce, 
Who  studies  nature  with  a  wanton  eye, 
Admires  the  work,  but  slips  the  lesson  by ; 
His  hours  of  leisure  and  recess  employs  215 

[n  drawing  pictures  of  forbidden  joys, 
Retires  to  blazon  his  own  worthless  name, 
Or  shoot  the  careless  with  a  surer  aim. 

The  lover,  too,  shuns  business  and  alarms, 
Tender  idolater  of  absent  charms.  220 

Saints  offer  nothing  in  their  warmest  pray*rs. 
That  he  devotes  not  with  a  zeal  like  theirs ; 
*Tis  consecration  of  his  heart,  soul,  time, 
And  ev'ry  thought  that  wanders  is  a  crime. 
In  sighs  he  worships  his  supremely  fair,  225 

And  weeps  a  sad  Hbation  in  despair  ; 
Adores  a  creature,  and,  devout  in  vain. 
Wins  in  return  an  answer  of  disdain. 
As  woodbine  weds  the  plant  within  her  reach, 
Rough  elm,  or  smooth-grain'd  ash,  or  glossy  beech. 
In  spiral  rings  ascends  the  trunk,  and  lays  231 

Her  golden  tassels  on  the  leafy  sprays, 
But  does  a  mischief  while  she  lends  a  grace. 
Strait 'ning  its  growth  by  such  a  strict  embrace  ; 
So  love,  that  clings  around  the  noblest  minds,  235 

Forbids  th'  advancement  of  the  soul  he  binds ; 
The  suitor's  air,  indeed,  he  soon  improves. 
And  forms  it  to  the  taste  of  her  he  loves. 
Teaches  his  eyes  a  language,  and  no  less 
Refines  his  speech,  and  fashions  his  address  !  240 

But  farewell  promises  of  happier  fruits  ; 
Manly  designs,  and  learning's  grave  pursuits  ; 
Girt  with  a  chain  he  cannot  wish  to  break. 
His  only  bliss  is  sorrow  for  her  sake  , 
Who  will  may  pant  for  glory  and  excel,  24S 

Her  smile  his  aim,  all  higher  aims  farewell ! 
Thyrsis,  Alexis,  or  whatever  name 
May  least  offend  against  so  pure  a  flame, 


156  RETIREMENT. 

Though  sage  advice  of  friends  the  most  sincere 

Sounds  harshly  in  sid  delicate  an  ear,  250 

And  lovers,  of  all  creatures,  tame  or  wild, 

Can  least  brook  management,  however  mild, 

Yet  let  a  poet,  (poetry  disarms 

The  fiercest  animals  with  magick  charms,) 

Risk  an  intrusion  on  thy  pensive  mood,  255 

And  woo  and  win  thee  to  thy  proper  good* 

Pastoral  images  and  still  retreats, 

Umbrageous  walks  and  solitary  seats, 

Sweet  birds  in  concert  with  harmonious  streams. 

Soft  airs,  nocturnal  vigils,  and  day  dreams,  260 

Are  all  enchantments  in  a  case  like  thine, 

Conspire  against  thy  peace  with  one  design  ; 

Sooth  thee  to  make  thee  but  a  surer  prey. 

And  feed  the  fire  that  wastes  thy  pow'rs  away  : 

Up — God  has  form'd  thee  with  a  wiser  view,  265 

Not  to  be  led  in  chains,  but  to  subdue  ; 

Calls  thee  to  cope  with  enemies,  and  first 

Points  out  a  conflict  with  thyself,  the  worst. 

Woman,  indeed,  a  gift  he  would  bestow 

When  he  design'd  a  Paradise  below,  270 

The  richest  earthly  boon  his  hands  afford. 

Deserves  to  be  belov'd,  but  not  ador'd. 

Post  away  swiftly  to  more  active  scenes. 

Collect  the  scatter'd  truths  that  study  gleans, 

Mix  with  the  world,  but  with  its  wiser  part,  275 

No  longer  give  an  image  all  thine  heart ; 

Its  empire  is  not  hers,  nor  is  it  thine, 

*Tis  God's  just  claim,  prerogative  divine. 

Virtuous  and  faithful  HeberdeUy  whose  skill 
Attempts  no  task  it  cannot  well  fulfil,  280 

Gives  melancholy  up  to  Nature's  care, 
And  send  the  patient  into  purer  air. 
Look  where  he  comes — in  this  embower'd  alcove 
Stand  close  conceai'd,  and  see  a  statue  move : 
Lips  busy,  and  eyes  fix'd,  foot  falling  slow,  285 

Arms  hanging  idly  down,  hands  clasp'd  below, 


^^SP7 


or  THi; 


RETIREMENT. 
Interpret  to  the  marking  eye  distress, 
SucI^  as  its  symptoms  can  alone  express. 
That  tongtie  is  silent  now  ;  that  silent  tongud, 
Could  argue  once,  could  jest  or  join  the  song,  290 

Could  give  advice,  could  censure  or  commend, 
Or  xjharm  the  soi^rows  of  a  drooping  friend. 
Renounc'd  alike  its  office,  and  its  sport. 
Its  brisker  and  its  graver  strains  fall  short ; 
Both  fail  beneath  a  fever's  secret  sway,  295 

And  like  a  summer  brook  are  pass'd  away. 
This  is  a  sight  for  pity  to  peruse. 
Till  she  resemble  faintly  what  she  views. 
Till  Sympathy  contract  a  kindred  pain, 
Pierc*d  with  the  woes  that  she  laments  in  vain.        300 
This,  of  all  maladies  that  man  infest. 
Claims  most  compassion,  and  receives  the  least : 
Job  felt  it  when  he  groan'd  beneath  the  rod 
And  the  barb'd  arrows  of  a  frowning  God  ; 
And  such  emollients  as  his  friends  Could  spare,        305 
Friends  such  as  his  for  modern  Jobs  prepare. 
Bless'd,  rather  curs'd,  with  hearts  that  never  feel, 
Kept  snug  in  caskets  of  close-hammer'd  steel, 
With  mouths  made  only  to  grin  wide  and  eat. 
And  minds  that  deem  derided  pain  a  treat,  310 

With  limbs  of  British  oak,  and  nerves  of  wire. 
And  wit  that  puppet-prompters  might  inspire. 
Their  sovereign  nostrum  is  a  clumsy  joke, 
On  pangs  enforc'd  with  God's  severest  stroke. 
But  Mtiih  a  soul,  that  ever  felt  the  stin^  315 

Of  sorrow,  sorrow  is  a  sacred  thing  : 
Not  to  molest,  or  irritate,  or  raise 
A  laugh  at  his  expense,  is  slender  praise  : 
He  that  has  not  usurp'd  the  name  of  man, 
Does  all,  and  deems  too  little  all,  he  can,  320 

T'  assuage  the  throbbings  of  the  festered  part, 
And  stanch  the  bleedings  of  a  broken  heart, 
'Tis  not  as  heads  that  never  ache  suppose, 
Forgery  of  fantiy,  and  a  dream  of  woes 
Vol.  I.  I'l 


i58  RETIREMENT. 

Man  is  a  harp,  whose  chords  elude  the  sight,  325 

Each  yielding  harmony  dispos'd  aright  > 

The  screws  revers'd,  (a  task  which  if  he  please 

God  in  a  moment  executes  with  ease,) 

Ten  thousand  thousand  springs  at  once  go  loose. 

Lost,  till  he  tune  them,  all  their  power  and  use.       330 

Then  neither  heathy  wilds,  nor  scenes  as  fair 

As  ever  recompens'd  the  peasant's  care, 

Nor  soft  declivities  with  tufted  hills, 

Nor  view  of  waters  turning  busy  mills, 

Parks  in  which  Art  preceptress  Nature  weds,  335 

Nor  gardens  interspers'd  with  flowery  beds. 

Nor  gales,  that  catch  the  scent  of  blooming  groves, 

And  waft  it  to  the  mourner  as  he  roves, 

Can  call  up  life  into  his  faded  eye. 

That  passes  all  he  sees  unheeded  by ;  340 

No  wounds  like  those  a  wounded  spirit  feels, 

No  cure  for  such,  till  God,  who  makes  them,  heals. 

And  thou,  sad  sufF'rer  under  nameless  ill. 

That  yields  not  to  the  touch  of  human  skill. 

Improve  the  kind  occasion,  understand  345 

A  Father's  frown,  and  kiss  his  chast'ning  hand. 

To  thee  the  day-spring  and  the  blaze  of  noon. 

The  purple  ev'ning  and  resplendent  moon, 

The  stars  that,  sprinkled  o'er  the  vault  of  night. 

Seem  drops  descending  in  a  show'r  of  light,  350 

Shine  not,  or  undesir'd  and  hated  shine. 

Seen  through  the  medium  of  a  cloud  like  thine  ;        .. 

Yet  seek  him,  in  liis  favour  life  is  found,  ^       ,:^ 

All  bliss  beside  a  shadow  or  a  sound  ; 

Then  Heav'n  eclips'd  so  long,  and  this  dull  earth,   355 

Shall  seem  to  start  into  a  second  birth  ; 

Nature,  assuming  a  more  lovely  face, 

Borrowing  a  beauty  from  the  works  of  grace, 

Shall  be  despis'd  and  overlook'd  no  more. 

Shall  fill  thee  with  delights  unfelt  before,  360 

Impart  to  things  inanimate  a  voice, 

And  bids  her  mountains  and  her  hills  rejoice  * 


RETIREMENT.  159 

The  sound  shall  run  along  the  winding  vales, 
And  thou  enjoy  an  Eden  ere  it  fails. 

Ye  groves,  (the  statesman  at  his  desk  ezclaimsi    365 
Sick  of  a  thousand  disappointed  aims,) 
My  patrimonial  treasure  and  my  pride, 
Beneath  your  shades  your  gray  possessor  hide, 
Receive  me  languishing  for  that  repose, 
The  servant  of  the  publick  never  knows.  370 

Ye  saw  me  once,  (ah  those  regretted  days. 
When  boyish  innocence  was  all  my  praise  !) 
Hour  after  hour  delightfully  allot 
To  studies  then  familiar,  since  forgot, 
And  cultivate  a  taste  for  ancient  song,  375 

Catching  its  ardour  as  I  mus'd  along  ; 
Nor  seldom,  as  propitious  Heav'n  might  send. 
What  once  I  valu'd  and  could  boast,  a  friend, 
Were  witnesses  how  cordially  I  press'd 
His  undissembling  virtue  to  my  breast  j  380 

Receive  me  now,  not  uncorrupt  as  then, 
Nor  guiltless  of  corrupting  other  men. 
But  vers'd  in  arts,  that  while  they  seem  to  stay 
A  falling  empire,  hasten  its  decay, 
To  the  fair  haven  of  my  native  home,  385 

The  wreck  of  what  I  was,  fatigued  I  come ; 
For  once  I  can  approve  the  patriot's  voice. 
And  make  the  course  he  recommends  my  choice : 
SVe  meet  at  last  in  one  sincere  desire. 
His  wish  and  mine  both  prompt  me  to  retire.  390 

Tis  done — he  steps  into  the  welcome  chaise. 
Lolls  at  his  ease  behind  four  handsome  bays, 
That  whirl  away  from  business  and  debate 
The  disencumber'd  Atlas  of  the  state. 
Ask  not  the  boy,  who,  when  the  breeze  of  mom       395 
First  shakes  the  glitt'ring  drops  from  ev'ry  thorn. 
Unfolds  his  flock,  then  under  bank  or  bush 
Sits  linking  cherry  stones,  or  platting  rush. 
How  fair  is  freedom  ! — he  was  always  free  • 
To  carve  his  rustick  name  upon  a  tree,  400 


160  RETIREMENT 

To  snare  the  mole,  or  with  ill-fashion'd  hooK 

To  draw  the  incautious  minnow  from  the  brook, 

Are  life's  prime  pleasures  in  his  simple  view, 

His  flock  the  chief  concern  he  ever  knew; 

She  shines  but  little  in  his  heedless  eyes,  405 

The  good  we  never  miss  we  rarely  prize  : 

But  ask  the  noble  drudge  in  state  aflairs, 

Escap'd  from  office  and  its  constant  cares, 

What  charms  he  sees  in  Freedom's  smile  expressed, 

In  Freedom  lost  so  long,  now  repossess'd  ;  410 

The  tongue,  whose  strains  were  cogent  as  commands, 

Rever'd  at  home,  and  felt  in  foreign  lands, 

Shall  own  itself  a  stamm'rer  in  that  cause. 

Or  plead  its  silence  as  its  best  applause. 

He  knows,  indeed,  that,  whether  dress'd  or  rude,     415 

Wild  without  art,  or  artfully  subdu'd, 

Nature  in  ev'ry  form  inspires  delight, 

But  never  mark'd  her  with  so  just  a  sight. 

Her  hedge-row  shrubs,  a  variegated  store, 

With  woodbine,  and  wild  roses  mantled  o*er, .  420 

Green  balks  and  furrow'd  lands,    the    stream,   that 

spreads 
Its  cooling  vapour  o'er  the  dewy  meads, 
Downs,  that  almost  escape  th'  inquiring  eye, 
That  melt  and  fade  into  the  distant  sky, 
Beauties  he  lately  slighted  as  he  pass'd,  425 

Seem  all  created  since  he  travell'd  last. 
Master  of  all  th'  enjojrments  he  designed, 
No  rough  annoyance  rankling  in  his  mind. 
What  early  philosophick  hours  he  keeps, 
How  regular  his  meals,  liow  sound  he  sleeps  !  430 

Not  sounder  he,  that  on  the  mammast  head, 
While  morning  kindles  with  a  windy  red, 
Begms  a  ong  look-out  for  distant  land, 
Nor  quits  till  evening  watch  his  giddy  stand. 
Then,  swift  descending  with  a  seaman's  haste,         435 
Slips  to  his  hammock,  and  forgets  the  blast 


RETIREMENT.  161 

He  chooses  company,  but  not  the  squire's, 
Whoso  wit  is  rudeness,  whose  good  breeding  tires ; 
Nor  yet  the  parson's,  who  would  gladly  come. 
Obsequious  when  abroad,  though  proud  at  home ;    440 
Nor  can  he  much  affect  the  neighb'ring  peer, 
Whose  toe  of  emulation  treads  too  near  j 
But  wisely  seeks  a  more  convenient  friend 
With  whom,  dismissing  forms,  he  may  unbend  - 
A  man,  whom  marks  of  condescending  grace  445 

Teach,  while  they  flatter  him,  his  proper  place  , 
Who  comes  when  call'd,  and  at  a  word  withdraws, 
Speaks  with  reserve,  and  listens  with  applause ; 
Some  plain  mechanick,  who,  without  pretence 
To  birth  or  wit,  nor  gives  nor  takes  offence  ;  450 

On  whom  he  rests  well  pleas'd  his  weary  powers, 
And  talks  and  laughs  away  his  vacant  hours. 
The  tide  of  life,  swifl  always  in  its  course, 
May  run  in  cities  with  a  brisker  force, 
But  no  where  with  a  current  so  serene,  455 

Or  half  so  clear,  as  in  the  rural  scene. 
Yet  how  fallacious  is  all  earthly  bliss, 
What  obvious  truths  the  wisest  heads  may  miss 
Some  pleasures  live  a  month,  and  some  a  year, 
But  short  the  date  of  all  we  gather  here  ;  460 

No  happiness  is  felt,  except  the  true. 
That  does  not  charm  the  more  for  being  new. 
This  observation,  as  it  chanc'd,  not  made, 
Or,  if  the  thought  occurr'd  not  duly  weigh'd. 
He  sighs — for,  after  all,  by  slow  degrees  465 

The  spot  he  lov'd  has  lost  the  pow'r  to  please 
To  cross  his  ambling  pony  day  by  day, 
Seems  at  the  best  but  dreaming  life  away ; 
The  prospect,  such  as  might  enchant  despair, 
He  views  it  not,  or  sees  no  beauty  there ;  470 

With  aching  heart,  and  discontented  looks, 
Returns  at  noon  to  billiards  or  to  books. 
But  feels,  while  grasping  at  his  faded  joys, 
A  secret  tliirst  of  his  renounc'd  employs 

14  • 


IG2  RETIREMENT. 

He  chides  the  tardiness  of  ev'ry  post,  475 

Pants  to  be  told  of  battles  won  or  lost, 

Blames  his  own  indolence,  observes,  though  late, 

'Tis  criminal  to  leave  a  sinking  state. 

Flies  to  the  levee,  and,  receiv'd  with  grace, 

Kneels,  kisses  hands,  and  shines  again  in  place.       480 

Suburban  villas,  highway  side  retreats. 
That  dread  th'  encroachment  of  our  growing  streets. 
Tight  boxes  neatly  sash*d,  and  in  a  blaze 
With  all  a  July  sun's  collected  rays. 
Delight  the  citizen,  who,  gasping  there,  485 

Breathes  clouds  of  dust,  and  calls  it  country  air. 
O  sweet  retirement,  who  would  balk  the  thought 
That  could  afford  retirement,  or  could  not  ? 
'Tis  such  an  easy  walk,  so  smooth  and  straight, 
The  second  milestone  fronts  the  garden  gate  ;  490 

A  step  if  fair  J  and  if  a  sliow'r  approach. 
You  find  safe  shelter  in  the  next  stage  coach. 
There  prison'd  in  a  parlour  snug  and  small, 
Like  bottled  wasps  upon  a  southern  wall. 
The  man  of  business  and  his  friends  compressed,     495 
Forget  their  labours,  and  yet  find  no  rest ; 
But  still  'tis  rural — trees  are  to  be  seen 
From  ev'ry  window,  and  the  fields  are  green  s 
Ducks  paddle  in  the  pond  before  the  door, 
And  what  could  a  remoter  scene  show  more  ?  500 

A  sense  of  elegance  we  rarely  find 
The  portion  of  a  mean  or  vulgar  mind, 
And  ignorance  of  better  things  makes  man, 
Who  cannot  much,  rejoice  in  what  he  can ; 
And  he  that  deems  liis  leisure  well  bestowed  505 

In  contemplation  of  a  turnpike  road. 
Is  occupied  as  well,  employs  his  hours 
As  wisely,  and  as  much  improves  his  pow'rs, 
As  he  that  slumbers  in  pavilions  grac'd 
With  all  the  charms  of  an  accomplish'd  taste.  610 

Yet  hence,  alas !  insolvencies ;  and  hence 
The  unpitied  victim  of  ill-judg'd  expense, 


RETIREMENT.  163 

From  all  his  wearisome  engagements  freed, 
Shakes  hands  with  business,  and  retires  indeed. 

Your  prudent  grandmammas,  ye  modern  belle»,   515 
Content  with  Bristol,  Bath,  and  Tunbridge  wells, 
When  health  requir'd  it  would  consent  to  roam. 
Else  more  attach'd  to  pleasures  found  at  home. 
But  now  alike,  gay  widow,  virgin,  wife, 
Ingenious  to  diversify  dull  life,  620 

In  coaches,  chaises,  caravans,  and  hoys, 
Fly  to  the  coast  for  daily,  nightly  joys, 
And  all,  impatient  of  dry  land,  agree 
With  one  consent  to  rush  into  the  sea — 
Ocean  exhibits,  fathomless  and  broad,  625 

Much  of  the  pow'r  and  majesty  of  God. 
He  sv/athcs  about  the  swelling  of  the  deep, 
That  shines  and  rests  as  infants  smile  and  sleep ; 
Vast  as  it  is,  it  answers  as  it  flows 
The  breathings  of  the  lightest  air  that  blows ;  530 

Curling  and  whit'ning  over  all  the  waste. 
The  rising  waves  obey  th'  increasing  blast. 
Abrupt  and  horrid  as  the  tempest  roars. 
Thunder  and  flash  upon  the  steadfast  shores. 
Till  he  that  rides  the  whirlwind,  checks  the  rein,    535 
Then  all  the  world  of  waters  sleep  again. — 
Nereids  or  Dryads,  as  the  fashion  leads, 
Now  in  the  floods,  now  panting  in  the  meads, 
Vot'ries  of  pleasure  still,  where'er  she  dwells. 
Near  barren  rocks,  in  palaces,  or  cells,  540 

O  grant  a  poet  leave  to  recommend, 
(A  poet  fond  of  Nature,  and  your  friend,) 
Her  slighted  works  to  your  admiring  view ; 
Her  works  must  needs  excel,  who  fashion'd  you. 
Would  ye,  when  rambling  in  your  morning  ride,      545 
With  some  unmeaning  coxcomb  at  your  side. 
Condemn  the  prattler  for  his  idle  pains. 
To  waste  unheard  the  musick  of  his  strains. 
And,  deaf  to  all  th*  impertinence  of  tongue, 
That,  while  il  courts,  affronts  and  does  you  wrong,  550 


164  RETIREMENT. 

Mark  well  the  finish'd  plan  without  a  fault, 

The  seas  globose  and  huge,  th'  o'erarching  vaulti 

Earth's  millions  daily  fed,  a  world  employed, 

In  gath'ring  plenty  yet  to  be  enjoy'd. 

Till  gratitude  grew  vocal  in  the  praise  555 

Of  God  beneficent  in  all  his  ways ; 

Grac'd  with  such  wisdom,  how  would  beauty  shiae  ? 

Ye  want  but  that  to  seem  indeed  divine. 

Anticipated  rents,  and  bills  unpaid, 
Force  many  a  shining  youth  into  the  shade,  560 

Not  to  redeem  his  time,  but  his  estate, 
And  play  the  fool,  but  at  a  cheaper  rate. 
There,  hid  in  loth'd  obscurity,  remov'd 
From  pleasures  left,  but  never  more  belov'd. 
He  just  endures,  and  with  a  sickly  spleen  565 

Sighs  o'er  the  beauties  of  the  charming  scene  ; 
Nature  indeed  looks  prettily  in  rhyme  ; 
Streams  tinkle  sweetly  in  poetick  chime.; 
The  warblings  of  the  blackbird,  clear  and  strong, 
Are  musical  enough  in  Thomson's  song  ;  570 

And  Cobham's  groves,  and  Windsor's  green  retreats, 
When  Pope  describes  them,  have  a  thousand  sweets ; 
He  likes  the  country,  but  in  truth  must  own. 
Most  likes  it,  when  he  studies  it  in  town. 

Poor  Jack — no  matter  who — for  when  I  blame,    575 
I  pity,  and  must  therefore  sink  the  name, 
Liv'd  in  his  saddle,  lov'd  the  chace,  the  course. 
And  always,  ere  he  mounted,  kiss'd  his  horse. 
The  estate  his  sires  had  own'd  in  ancient  years, 
Was  quickly  distanc'd,  match'd  against  a  peer's.        580 
Jack  vanish'd,  was  regretted  and  forgot ; 
*Tis  wild  good  nature's  never-failing  lot. 
At  length,  when  all  had  long  suppos'd  him  dead, 
By  cold  submersion,  razor,  rope,  or  lead. 
My  lord,  alighting  at  his  usual  place,  585 

The  Crown,  took  notice  of  an  ostler's  face. 
Jack  knew  his  friend,  but  hop'd  in  that  disguise 
He  might  escape  the  most  observmg  eyes ; 


RETIREMENT.  165 

And  whistling,  as  if  unconcern'd  and  gay, 
Curried  his  nag,  and  look'd  another  way.  590 

Convinc'd  at  last,  upon  a  nearer  view, 
'Twas  he,  the  same,  the  very  Jack  he  knew, 
O'erwhelm'd  at  once  with  wonder,  grief,  and  joy, 
He  press'd  him  much  to  quit  his  base  employ  ; 
Bis  countenance,  his  purse,  his  heart,  his  hand,      595 
Influence  and  pow'r,  were  all  at  his  command : 
Peers  are  not  always  gen'rous  as  well-bred, 
But  Granby  was,  meant  truly  what  he  said. 
Jack  bow'd,  and  was  oblig'd — confess'd  'twas  strange, 
That  so  retir'd  he  should  not  wish  a  change,  600 

But  knew  no  medium  between  guzzling  beer. 
And  his  old  stint — three  thousand  pounds  a  year. 

Thus  some  retire  to  nourish  hopeless  wo ; 
.  Some  seeking  happiness  not  found  below  j 
Some  to  comply  with  humour,  and  a  mind  605 

To  social  scenes  by  nature  disinclin'd  ; 
Some  sway'd  by  fashion,  some  by  deep  disgust ; 
Some  self-impoverish'd,  and  because  they  must ; 
But  few,  that  court  Retirement,  are  aware 
Of  half  the  toils  they  must  encounter  there.  610 

Lucrative  offices  are  seldom  lost 
For  want  of  pow'rs  proportion'd  to  the  post : 
Give  e'en  a  dunce  th*  employment  he  desires. 
And  he  soon  finds  the  talents  it  requires ; 
A  business  with  an  income  at  its  heels  615 

Furnishes  always  oil  for  its  own  wheels. 
But  in  his  arduous  enterprise  to  close 
His  active  years  with  indolent  repose, 
He  finds  the  labours  of  that  state  exceed 
His  utmost  faculties,  severe  indeed.  620 

*Tis  easy  to  resign  a  toilsome  place. 
But  not  to  manage  leisure  with  a  grace  ; 
Absence  of  occupation  is  not  rest, 
A  mind  quite  vacant  is  a  mind  distress'd. 
The  vet'ran  steed,  excus'd  his  task  at  length,  625 

In  kind  compassion  of  his  failing  strength, 


j6G  RETIREMENT. 

And  turn'd  into  the  park  or  mead  to  graze, 

Exempt  from  future  service  all  his  days, 

Theie  feels  a  pleasure  perfect  in  its  kind, 

Ranges  at  liberty,  and  snuffs  the  wind  :  630 

But  when  his  lord  would  quit  the  busy  road, 

To  taste  a  joy  like  that  he  had  bestow 'd. 

He  proves,  less  happy  than  his  favour'd  brute, 

A  life  of  ease  a  difficult  pursuit. 

Thought,  to  the  man  that  never  thinks,  may  seom  635 

As  natural  as  when  asleep  to  dream ; 

But  reveries,  (for  human  minds  will  act,) 

Specious  in  show,  impossible  in  fact, 

Those  flimsy  webs,  that  break  as  soon  as  wrought, 

Attain  not  to  the  dignity  of  thought :  640 

Nor  yet  the  swarms  that  occupy  the  brain, 

Where  dreams  of  dress,  intrigue,  and  pleasure  reign ;    . 
Nor  such  as  useless  conversation  breeds. 

Or  lust  engenders,  and  indulgence  feeds. 

Whence,  and  what  are  we  ?  to  what  end  ordain*d  ?  645 

What  means  the  drama  by  the  world  sustain'd  ? 

Business  or  vain  amusement,  care  or  mirth, 

Divide  the  frail  inhabitants  of  earth. 

Is  duty  a  mere  sport,  or  an  employ  ? 

Life  an  intrusted  talent,  or  a  toy  ?  650 

Is  there,  as  reason,  conscience.  Scripture  say. 

Cause  to  provide  for  a  great  future  day. 

When  earth's  assign'd  duration  at  an  end, 

Man  shall  be  summon'd  and  the  dead  attend  ? 

The  trumpet— will  it  sound  ?  the  curtain  rise  ?         655 

And  show  the  august  tribunal  of  the  skies. 

Where  no  prevarication  shall  avail, 

Where  eloquence  and  artifice  shall  fail. 

The  pride  of  arrogant  distinctions  fall. 

And  conscience  and  our  conduct  judge  us  all  ?  660 

Pardon  me,  ye  that  give  the  midnight  oil 

To  learned  cares  of  philosophick  toil, 

Though  I  revere  your  honourable  names, 

Your  useful  labours  and  important  aims, 


RETIREMENT.  K? 

And  hold  the  world  indebted  to  your  aid,  665 

Enrich'd  with  the  discov'ries  ye  have  made  ; 
Yet  let  me  stand  excus'd,  if  I  esteem 
A  mind  employ'd  on  so  sublime  a  theme, 
Pushing  her  bold  inquiry  to  the  date 
And  outline  of  the  present  transient  state,  670 

And  after  poising  her  advent 'rous  wings, 
Settling  at  last  upon  eternal  things, 
Far  more  intelligent,  and  better  taught 
The  strenuous  use  of  profitable  thought, 
Than  ye,  when  happiest,  and  enlighten'd  most,        675 
And  highest  in  renown,  can  justly  boast. 
A  mind  unnerv'd,  or  indispos'd  to  bear 
The  weight  of  subjects  worthiest  of  her  care. 
Whatever  hopes  a  change  of  scene  inspires. 
Must  change  her  nature,  or  in  vaitf  tetires.  880 

An  idler  is  a  watch  that  wants  both  hands ; 
As  useless  if  it  goes,  as  when  it  stands. 
Books,  therefore,  not  the  scandal  of  the  shelves. 
In  which  lewd  sensualists  print  out  themselves ; 
Nor  those  in  which  the  stage  gives  vice  a  blow,       685 
With  what  success  let  modern  manners  show  ; 
Nor  his,  who,  for  the  bane  of  thousands  born. 
Built  God  a  church,  and  laugh'd  his  word  to  scorn, 
Skilful  alike  to  seem  devout  and  just. 
And  stab  religion  with  a.  sly  side-thrust ;  690 

Nor  those  of  learned  pliilologists,  who  chase 
A  panting  syllable  through  time  and  space, 
Start  it  at  home,  and  hunt  it  in  the  dark. 
To  Gaul,  to  Greece,  and  into  Noah's  ark ; 
But  such  as  learning  without  false  pretence,  695 

The  friend  of  truth,  th'  associate  of  good  sense. 
And  such  as,  in  the  zeal  of  good  design. 
Strong  judgment  lab'ring  in  the  Scripture  mine, 
All  such  as  manfy  and  great  souls  produce, 
Worthy  to  live,  and  of  eternal  use ;  700 

Behold  in  these  what  leisure  hours  demand, 
Amusement  and  true  knowledge  hand  in  hand. 


1^  RETIREMENT. 

Luxury  gives  the  mind  a  childish  cast, 

And,  while  she  polishes,  perverts  the  taste ; 

Habits  of  close  attention,  thinking  heads,  705 

Become  more  rare  as  dissipation  spreads, 

Till  authors  hear  at  length  one  gen'ral  cry, 

Tickle  and  entertain  us,  or  we  die. 

The  loud  demand,  from  year  to  year  the  same, 

Beggars  Invention,  and  malies  Fancy  lame ;  710 

Till  farce  itself  most  mournfully  jejune. 

Calls  for  the  kind  assistance  of  a  tune ; 

And  novels,  (witness  ev'ry  month's  review,) 

Belie  their  name,  and  offer  nothing  new. 

The  mind,  relaxing  into  needful  sport,  715 

Should  turn  to  writers  of  an  abler  sort. 

Whose  wit  well  manag'd,  and  whose  classick  style, 

Give  truth  a  lustre,^and  make  wisdom  smile. 

Friends,  (for  I  cannot  stint,  as  some  have  done, 

Too  rigid  in  my  view,  that  name  to  one  ;  720 

Though  one,  I  grant  it,  in  the  gen'rous  breast 

Will  stand  advanc'd  a  step  above  the  rest ; 

Flow'rs  by  that  name  promiscuously  we  call. 

But  oue,  the  rose,  the  regent  of  them  all,) — 

Friends,  not  adopted  with  a  schoolboy's  haste,  725 

But  chosen  with  a  nice  discerning  taste, 

Well  born,  well  disciplin'd,  who,  plac'd  apart 

From  vulgar  minds,  have  honour  much  at  heart. 

And  though  the  world  may  think  the  ingredients  odd. 

The  love  of  virtue,  and  the  fear  of  God !  730 

Such  friends  prevent  what  else  would  soon  saccecd, 

A  temper  rustick  as  the  life  we  lead. 

And  keep  the  polish  of  the  manners  clean. 

As  theirs  who  bustle  in  the  busiest  scene  ; 

For  solitude,  however  some  may  rave,  735 

Seeming  a  sanctuary,  proves  a  grave, 

A  sepulchre,  in  which  the  living  lie,    • 

Whore  all  good  qurilities  grow  sick  and  die. 


RETIREMENT.  169 

i  praise  tho  Frenchman,*  his  remark  was  shrewd^-^ 
How  sweet,  how  passing  sweet  is  solitude  !  ^40 

But  grant  me  still  a  friend  in  my  retreat, 
Whom  I  may  whiter — solitude  is  sweet. 
Yet  neither  these  d^irghls,  nor  aught  beside, 
T^hat  appetite  can  ask,  oir  wealth  provide, 
Can  save  us  always  from  a  tedious  day,  t-fc 

Or  shine  the  dulnoss  of  still  life  away ; 
Divine  communion,  carefully  enjoy'd, 
Or  sought  with  energy,  must  fill  the  void. 
O  sacred  art,  to  which  alone  life  owes 
Its  happiest  seasons,  and  a  peaceful  close  ;  750 

Scom'd  in  a  world,  indebted  to  that  scorn 
For  evils  daily  felt  and  hardly  borne. 
Not  knowing  thee,  we  reap  with  bleeding  nands 
Flow'rs  of  rank  odour  upon  thorny  lands. 
And  while  Experience  cautions  us  in  vain,  755 

Grasp  seeming  happiness,  and  find  it  pain. 
Despondence,  self-deserted  in  her  grief. 
Lost  by  abandoning  her  own  relief, 
Murmuring  and  ungrateful  discontent, 
That  scorns  afflictions  mercifully  meant,  760 

Those  humours  tart  as  wine  upon  the  fret. 
Which  idleness  and  weariness  beget  ; 
These,  and  a  thousand  plagues,  that  haunt  the  breast, 
*Fond  of  the  phantom  of  an  earthly  rest. 
Divine  communion  chases,  as  the  day  765 

Drives  to  their  dens  th*  obedient  beasts  of  prey. 
See  Judah's  promis'd  king,  berefl  of  all, 
Driv'n  out  an  exile  from  the  face  of  Saul ; 
To  distant  caves  the  lonely  wand'rer  flies. 
To  seek  that  peace  a  tyrant's  frown  denies.  '!*70 

Hear  the  sweet  accents  of  his  tuneful  voice, 
Hear  him,  o'erwhelm'd  -with  sorrow,  yet  rejoice  ; 
No  womanish  or  wailing  grief  has  part, 
No,  not  a  moment,  in  his  royal  heart  ; 

*  Bruyere. 
Vol.  I.  15 


170  RETIREMENT. 

'Tis  manly  musick,  such  as  martyrs  make,  775 

SufF'ring  with  gladness  for  a  Saviour's  sake  ; 
His  soul  exults,  hope  animates  his  lays, 
The  sense  of  mercy  kindles  into  praise, 
And  wilds,  familiar  with  a  liori'^roar, 
Ring  with  ecstatick  sounds  unheard  before ;  780 

Tis  love  like  his,  that  can  alone  defeat 
^  The  foes  of  man,  or  make  a  desert  sweet. 

Religion  does  not  censure  or  exclude 
Unnumber'd  pleasures  harmlessly  pursued  j 
To  study  culture,  and  with  artful  toil  785 

To  meliorate  and  tame  the  stubborn  soil ; 
To  give  dissimilar,  yet  fruitful  lands, 
The  grain,  or  herb,  or  plant,  that  each  demands  ; 
To  cherish  virtue  in  an  humble  state. 
And  share  tlie  joys  your  bounty  may  create  ;  790 

To  mark  the  matchless  workings  of  the  pow'r. 
That  shuts  within  its  seed  the  future  flow'r. 
Bid  these  m  elegance  of  form  excel. 
In  colour  these,  and  those  delight  the  smell  , 
Sends  nature  forth,  the  daughter  of  the  skies,  795 

To  dance  on  earth,  and  charm  all  human  eyes , 
To  teach  the  canvass  innocent  deceit. 
Or  lay  the  landscape  on  the  snowy  sheet — 
These,  these  are  arts  pursu'd  without  a  crmie, 
That  leave  no  stain  upon  the  wing  of  Time.  800 

Me  poetry,  (or  rather  notes  that  aim 
Feebly  and  vainly  at  poetick  fame,) 
Employs,  shut  out  from  more  important  views, 
Fast  bv  the  banks  of  the  slow- winding  Ouse ; 
Content  if  thus  sequester'd  I  may  raise  805 

A  monitor's  though  not  a  poet's  praise, 
And  while  I  teach  an  art  too  little  known, 
To  close  life  wisely,  may  not  waste  my  own 


THE  YEARLY  DISTRESS, 

OB, 
TITHING  TIME  AT  STOCK,  IN  ESSEX. 

Verses  addressed  to  a  country  clerg3rman,  complaining 
of  .the  disagreeableness  of  the  day  annually  appoint- 
ed for  receiving  the  dues  at  the  parsonage. 


COME,  ponder  well,  for  *tis  no  jest, 
T  o  laugh  it  would  be  wrong, 

The  troubles  of  a  worthy  priest. 
The  burden  of  my  song. 

The  priest  he  merry  is  and  blithe, 
Three  quarters  of  the  year. 

But,  oh  !  it  cuts  him  like  a  sithe, 
When  tithing  time  draws  neai. 

He  then  is  full  of  frights  and  fearfli» 

As  one  at  point  to  die, 
And  long  before  the  day  appears, 

He  heaves  up  many  a  sigh. 

For  then  the  farmers  come,  jog,  jog, 

Along  the  miry  road, 
Each  heart  as  heavy  as  a  log, 

To  make  their  payments  good. 


172  THE  \ EARLY  DISTRESS. 

In  sooth,  the  sorrow  of  such  days 

Is  not  to  be  express'd, 
When  he  that  takes,  and  he  that  payg, 
Arc  both  alike  distress'd. 

Now  all  unwelcome  at  his  gates 
The  clumsy  swains  alight, 

With  rueful  faces  and  bald  pates- 
He  trembles  at  the  sight. 

And  well  he  may,  for  well  he  knows 

Each  bumpkin  of  the  cian. 
Instead  of  paying  what  he  owes. 

Will  cheat  him  if  he  can. 

^o  in  they  come — each  makes  J43  leg^ 

And  flings  his  head  before, 
And  looks  as  if  he  came  to  beg. 

And  not  to  quit  a  score. 

"  And  how  does  miss  and  madam  do, 
«  The  little  boy,  and  all  ?"  ,.-{^;-j. 

"  All  tight  and  well.    And  how  do  yiw 
«  Good  Mr.  What-d'ye-call  ?" 

The  dinner  comes,  and  down  they  sit 
Wore  e'er  such  hungry  folk  ? 

There's  little  talking,  and  no  wit ; 
It  is  no  time  to  joke. 

One  wipes  his  nose  upon  his  sleeyOi 

One  spits  upon  the  floor. 
Yet  not  to  give  offence  or  grieve, 

Holds  up  the  cloth  before. 

The  punch  goes  round,  and  they  are  dull 

And  lumpish  still  as  ever  ; 
Like  barrels  with  their  bellies  full. 

They  only  weigh  the  heavier. 


'■''•'II 


THE  YEARLY  DISTRESS.  173 

At  length  the  husy  time  begins, 
"  Come,  neighbours,  we  must  wag — ** 
The  money  chinks,  down  drop  their  chinBy 
Each  lugging  out  his  bag. 

One  talks  of  mildew  and  of  frost,       \ 
And  one  of  storms  of  hail,  ] 

And  one  of  pigs,  that  he  has  lost 
By  maggots  at  the  tail. 

Quoth  one,  "  A  rarer  man  than  you 

"  In  pulpit  none  shall  hear : 
"  But  yet,  methinks,  to  tell  you  true, 

"  You  sell  it  plaguy  dear." 

O  why  are  farmers  made  so  coarse 

Or  clergy  made  so  fine  ? 
A  kick  that  scarce  would  move  a  hoTMi 

May  kill  a  sound  divine.  ' 

Then  let  the  boobies  stay  at  home  ; 

*Twould  cost  him,  I  dare  say, 
Less  trouble  taking  twice  the  sum 
Without  the  clowns  that  pay. 


(174) 


SONNET 


ADDRESSED   TO   HENKY   C0W?^|^^^ 

On  his  emphaticaJ  and  interesting  delivery  of  the 
defence  of  Warren  Hastings,  Esq.  in  the  House  of 
Lords. 


COWPER,  whose  silver  voice,  task'd  sometimes  hard 

Legends  prolix  delivers  in  the  ears, 

(Attentive  when  thou  read'st,)  of  England's  peers. 
Let  verse  at  length  yield  thee  thy  just  reward. 

Thou  wast  not  heard  with  drowsy  disregard. 
Expending  late  on  all  that  length  of  plea 
Thy  gen'rous  pow'rs,  but  silence  honoured  thee, 

Mute  as  e'er  gaz'd  on  orator  or  bard. 

Thou  art  not  voice  alone,  but  hast  beside  * 

Both  heart  and  head  ;  and  couldst  with  musick  sweet 
Of  Attick  phrase  and  senatorial  tone, 
Like  thy  renown'd  forefathers,  far  and  wide 
Tliy  fame  diffuse,  prais'd  not  for  utt'rance  meet 
Of  others*  speech,  but  ma.gick  of  thy  own. 


LINES, 
ADDRESSED  TO  DR.  DARWIN, 

Authoi  of  "  The  Botanick  Garden  " 


TWO  Poets  »  (poets  by  report. 

Not  oft  so  well  agree,) 
Sweet  harmonists  of  Flora's  coutf 

Conspire  to  honour  Thee. 

They  best  can  judge  a  poet's  worlkh  o  f 

Who  oft  themselves  have  knq^MKp  ^^ 

The  pangs  of  a  ppetick  birth 
By  labours  of  their  own. 

We  therefore  pleas'd  extol  thy  song 

Though  various  yet  complete, 
Rich  in  embellishment  as  strong 

And  learned  as  'tis  sweet. 


:I]A 


No  envy  mingles  with  our  praise. 
Though,  could  our  hearts  repine 

At  any  poet's  happier  lays, 

They  would — ^they  must  at  thine. 

Bnt  we  in  mutual  bondage  kni^ 

Of  friendship's  closest  tie, 
Can  gaze  on  even  Darwin's  wit 

With  an  unjaundic'd  eye ; 

And  deem  the  Bard,  whoo'.pi'.JI^Q- he, 

And  howsoever  kno,wn> 
Who  would  not  twine  a  wxeath  for  TkbOp 

Un^irorthy  of  his  own. 

Alluding  to  the  poem  by  Mr,  Hayley,  tokieh 
$ompanted  these  lintt 


(176) 


MRS.  MONTAGU'S  FEATHER  HANG^ 
,      .INGS. 


THE  Birds  put  off  their  ev'ry  hue, 
To  dress  a  room  for  Montagu.  '^^^  v".  T 

The  Peacock  sends  his  heavenly  dyes, 
His  rainbows  and  his  starry  eyes  ; 
The  Pheasant  plumes,  which  round  infold 
His  mantling  neck  with  downy  gold  ; 
The  Cock  his  arch'd  tail's  azure  show ; 
And,  river-blanch'd,  the  Swan  his  snow     ^, 
All  tribes  beside  of  Indian  name,  ', 

That  glossy  shine,  or  vivid  flame, 
Where  rises  and  where  sets  the  day, 
Whate'er  they  boast  of  rich  and  gay, 
Contribute  to  the  gorgeous  plan. 
Proud  to  advance  it  all  they  can. 
This  plumage  neither  dashing  show*r, 
Nor  blasts  that  shake  the  dripping  bow*r. 
Shall  drench  again  or  discompose. 
But,  screened  from  every  storm  that  blow*,' 
It  boasts  a  splendour  ever  new, 
Safe  with  protecting  Montagu. 

To  this  same  patroness  resort. 
Secure  of  favour  at  her  court. 
Strong  Genius,  from  whose  forge  of  thought 
Forms  rise,  to  quick  perfection  wrought, 
Which,  though  new-born,  with  vigour  move,     >fe. 
Like  Pallas  springing  arm'd  from  Jove —  -^ 


ON  MRS.  MONTAGU'S  HANGINGS.      177 
Imagination  scattering  round 
Wild  roses  over  furrow'd  ground, 
Which  Labour  of  his  frown  beguile, 
And  teach  Philosophy  a  smile- 
Wit  flashing  on  Religion's  side, 
Whose  fires  to  sacred  Truth  applied^ 
The  gem,  though  luminous  before, 
Obtrudes  on  human  notice  more, 
Like  sunbeams  on  the  golden  heigut 
Of  some  tall  temple  playing  bright — • 
Well-tutor'd  Learning,  from  his  books 
Dismiss'd  with  grave,  not  haughty,  Io<^ 
Their  order  on  his  shelves  exact,     - '    mwm  MA  I 
Not  more  harmonious  or  compact  '   ■-     '^ 

Than  that  to  which  he  keeps  conim'd 
The  various  treasures  of  his  mind- 
All  these  to  Montagu's  repair. 
Ambitious  of  a  shelter  there  : 
There  Genius,  Learning,  Fancy,  Wit, 
Their  ruffled  plumage  calm  refit, 
(For  stormy  troubles  loudest  roar 
Around  their  flight  who  highest  mwi 
And  in  her  eye,  and  by  her  aid. 
Shine  safe  without  a  fear  to  fade 

She  thus  maintains  divided  sway 
With  yon  bright  regent  of  the  day 
The  plume  and  poet  both,  we  knoWi 
Their  lustre  to  his  influence  owe ; 
And  she  the  works  of  Phoebus  aidii:^. 
Both  poet  saves  and  plume  from  fading. 


.:>mpvtf       ^,,g) 


VERSES 


Supposed  to  be  written  by  Alexarider  Selkirkj  during 
his  solitary  abode  on  the  island  of  Juan  Fernandez. 


I. 
I  AM  monarch  of  all  I  survey, 

My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute ; 
From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea, 

I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 

0  Solitude  !  where  are  the  charms 
That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face  ? 

Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms. 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 
11. 

1  am  out  of  humanity's  reach, 

I  must  finish  my  journey  alone. 
Never  hear  the  sweet  musick  of  speech, 

I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 
The  beasts  that  roam  over  the  plain> 

My  form  with  indifference  see  ; 
They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man, 

Their  tameness  is  shocking  to  me. 

m. 

Society,  friendship,  and  love. 

Divinely  bestow'd  upon  man, 
O  had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove. 

How  soon  would  I  taste  you  again  » 
My  sorrows  I  then  might  assuage 

In  the  ways  of  religion  and  truth, 
Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  age, 

And  be  cheer'd  by  the  sallies  of  youth 


VERSES  BY  ALEXANDER  SELKIRK.    179 
IV. 
Religion !  what  treasure  untold 

Resides  in  that  heavenly  word  I 
More  precious  than  silver  and  gold. 

Or  all  that  this  earth  can  afford. 
But  the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell 

These  valleys  and  rocks  never  heard. 
Never  sigh'd  at  the  sound  of  a  knell. 

Or  smil'd  when  a  sabbath  appeared. 

V. 

Ye  winds  that  have  made  me  your  sport) 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 
Some  cordial  endearing  report 

Of  a  land  1  shall  visit  no  more. 
My  friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 

A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  ? 
O  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 

Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 

VI. 

How  fleet  is  a  glance  of  the  mind ! 

Compar  d  with  the  speed  of  its  flight. 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 

And  the  swift- winged  arrows  of  light. 
When  I  think  of  my  own  native  land, 

In  a  moment  I  seem  to  be  there ; 
But,  alas  !  recollection  at  hand 

Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

VII. 
But  the  sea-fowl  is  gone  to  her  nest, 
The  beast  is  laid  down  in  his  lair ; 
Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest, 

And  I  to  my  cabin  repair. 
There's  mercy  in  every  place, 
^    And  mercy,  encouraging  thought  I 
Gives  even  affliction  a  grace. 
And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 


(180) 


It 

oil  THE  PROMOTIOIC  OP 


EDWARD  THURLOW,  ESa 

To  the  Lord  High  Chancellorship  of  England. 


I. 

ROUND  Thurlow's  head,  in  early  youth, 

And  in  his  sportive  days, 
Fair  Science  pour*d  the  light  of  truth 

And  Genius  shed  his  rays 
II 
See  !  mtn  united  wonder,  cried 

Th*  experienc'd  and  the  sage, 
Ambition  in  a  boy  supplied 

With  all  the  skill  of  age  ! 
III. 
Discernment,  eloquence,  and  grace. 

Proclaim  him  bom  to  sway 
The  balance  in  the  highest  place, 

And  bear  the  palm  away. 
IV. 
The  praise  bcstow'd  was  just  and  wise  , 

He  sprang  impetuous  forth, 
Secure  of  conquest,  where  the  prize 

Attends  superiour  worth. 
V 
So  the  best  courser  on  the  plain 

Ere  yet  he  starts  is  known. 
And  does  but  at  the  goal  obtain 

What  all  had  deem'd  his  own. 


(181) 


ODE  TO  PEACE- 


I. 

COME,  peace  of  mind,  delightful  guest  I 
Ref  ^m  and  make  thy  downy  nest 

Once  more  in  this  sad  heart : 
Nor  riches  I  nor  pow'r  pursue, 
Nor  hold  forbidden  joys  in  view ; 

"We  therefore  need  not  part. 

n. 

Where  wilt  thou  dwell,  if  not  with  me, 
From  av'rice  and  ambition  free, 

And  pleasure's  fatal  wiles  ?  i 

For  whom,  alas !  dost  thou  prepare        -i^^i 
The  sweets  that  I  was  wont  to  share^    ^i 

The  banquet  of  thy  smiles  ? 

m.  siwi  wT 

The  great,  the  gay,  shall  they  partdcs.^T 
The  Heav'n  that  thou  alone  canst  makfl»^/- 

And  wilt  thou  quit  the  stream 
That  murmurs  through  the  dewy  mead^ 
*   The  grove  and  the  sequester'd  shed 
To  be  a  guest  with  them  ? 
IV. 
For  thee  I  panted,  thee  I  prixM, 
For  thee  I  gladly  sacrific'd 
Whatever  I  lov'd  before ; 
^|Md  shall  I  see  thee  start  away, 
And  helpless,  hopeless,  hear  thee  i 
Farewell !  we  meet  no  more  ? 
Vol.  I  16 


(182) 
HUMAN  FRAILTY. 


1. 

WEAK  and  irresolute  is  man  ; 

The  purpose  of  to-day, 
Woven  with  pains  into  his  plan, 

To-morrow  rends  away. 
II. 
The  bow  well  bent,  and  smart  the  spring, 

Vice  seems  already  slain ; 
But  Passion  rudely  snaps  the  string, 

And  it  revives  again. 

ni. 

Some  foe  to  his  upright  intent 

Finds  out  his  weaker  part ; 
Virtue  engages  his  assent, 

But  Pleasure  wins  his  heart. 
IV. 
Tis  here  the  folly  of  the  wise 

Through  all  his  heart  we  view ; 
And,  while  his  tongue  the  charge  denies^j/t 

His  conscience  owns  it  true. 
V. 
Bound  on  a  voyage  of  awful  length 

And  dangers  little  known, 
A  stranger  to  superiour  strength, 

Man  vainly  trusts  his  own. 
VI. 
But  oars  alone  can  ne'er  prevail, 

To  reach  the  distant  coast ;  ^ 

The  breath  of  Heav'n  must  swell  the  sail, 

Or  all  the  toil  is  lost. 


(  iB3  ) 


THE  MODERN  PATRIOT. 


I. 
REBELLION  is  my  theme  all  day : 

I  only  wish  'twould  come, 
(As  who  knows  but  perhaps  it  may  ?) 

A  little  nearer  home. 
II. 
Yon  roaring  boys,  who  rave  and  fight 

On  t'other  side  th'  Atlantick, 
I  always  held  them  in  the  right, 

But  most  so  when  most  frantick. 
III. 
When  lawless  mobs  insult  the  court, 

That  man  shall  be  my  toast, 
If  breaking  windows  be  the  sporty 

Who  bravely  breaks  the  most. 

But,  O !  for  him  my  fancy  culls 

The  choicest  flow'rs  she  bears, 
Who  constitutionally  pulls 
Tour  house  about  your  ears. 
V. 
Such  civil  broils  are  my  delight. 

Though  some  folks  can't  endure  them. 
Who  say  the  mob  are  mad  outright, 
.  And  that  a  rope  must  cure  them. 
VI. 
A  rope  !  I  wish  we  patriots  had  '^  r!  JvV 
^    Such  strings  for  all  who  need  'em — 
What  !  hang  a  man  for  going  mad  ! 
Then  farewell  British  freedom. 


C184) 


On  observing  some  Names  of  Utile  note  recorded  in 
the  Biographia  Britannica. 


OH,  fond  attempt  to  give  a  deathless  lot 
To  names  ignoble,  born  to  be  forgot! 
In  vain,  recorded  in  historick  page, 
They  court  the  notice  of  a  future  age  • 
Those  twinkling  tiny  lustres  of  the  land 
Drop  one  by  one  from  Fame's  neglecting  hand 
Lethaean  gulfs  receive  them  as  they  fall. 
And  dark  oblivion  soon  absorbs  them  all. 

So  when  a  child,  as  playful  children  use, 
Has  burnt  to  tinder  a  stale  last  year's  news, 
The  flame  extinct,  he  views  the  roving  fire- 
There  goes  my  lady,  and  there  goes  the  squire, 
There  goes  the  parson,  oh  illustrious  spark ! 
And  there,  scarce  less  illustrious,  goes  the  clerk  * 


REPORT 
Of  an  adjudged  Case,  not  to  he  found  in  any  of  !|« 


I. 

BETWEEN  Nose  and  Eyes  a  strange  contest  arose 
The  spectacles  set  them  unhappily  wrong  ;     ^ 

The  point  in  dispute  was,  as  all  the  world  knows. 
To  which  the  said  spectacles  ought  to  belong. 


REPORT  OF  A  LAW  CASE.  185 

II. 

So  Tongue  was  the  lawyer,  and  argued  the  cause 
With  a  great  deal  of  skill,  and  a  wig  full  of  learning, 

While  chief  baron  Ear  sat  to  balance  the  laws, 
So  fam'd  for  his  talent  in  nicely  discerning. 

m. 

Inbehalf  of  the  Nose  it  will  quickly  appear, 

And  your  lordship,  he  said,  will  undoubtedly  find, 
That  the  Nose  has  had  spectacles  always  in  wear. 
Which  amounts  to  possession  time  out  of  mind. 
IV. 
Then  holding  the  spectacles  up  to  the  court. 
Your  lordship    observes    they    are    made    with    t 
straddle 
As  wide  as  the  ridge  of  the  Nose  is ;  in  short, 
Design'd  to  sit  close  to  it,  just  like  a  saddle. 
V. 
Again,  would  your  lordship  a  moment  suppose, 

('Tis  a  case  that  has  happened,  and  may  be  again,} 
That  the  visage  or  countenance  had  not  a  Nose, 
Pray  who  would,  or  who  could,  wear  spectacles  then  f 
VI. 
On  the  whole  it  appears,  and  my  argument  shows. 
With  a  reasoning  the  court  will  never  condemn, 
That  the  spectacles  plainly  were  made  for  the  Nose 
And  the  Nose  was  as  plainly  intended  for  them. 
VIL 
Then  shifting  his  side,  (as  a  lawyer  knows  now, 

He  pleaded  again  in  behalf  of  the  Eyes . 
But  what  were  his  arguments  few  people  know. 
For  the  court  did  not  think  they  were  equally  wise 
VIII. 
So  his  lordship  decreed,  with  a  grave  solemn  tore, 

Decisive  and  clear,  without  one  if  or  but — 
That,  whenever  the  Nose  put  his  spectacles  on. 
By  daylight  or  candle-light — ^Eyes  should  be  shut 
16* 


(186) 


09 

THE  BURNING 

OF 

LORD  MANSFIELD'S  LIBRARY, 

TOGETHER  WITH  HIS  MSS. 

By  the  Mob,  in  the  month  of  June,  1781^ 


L 
So  then— the  Vandals  of  our  isle, 

Sworn  foes  to  sense  and  law, 
Have  burnt  to  dust  a  nobler  pile 

Than  ever  Roman  saw ! 
II. 
And  Murray  sighs  o*er  Pope  and  Swift, 

And  many  a  treasure  more, 
The  well-judged  purchase  and  the  gift| 

That  graced  his  lettered  store. 
IIL 
Their  pages  mangled,  burnt,  and  torn, 

The  loss  was  his  alone  ; 
But  ages  yet  to  come  shall  mourn 

The  burning  oihis  own 


(187) 


ON  THE  SAME. 


L 

WHEN  Wit  and  Genius  meet  their  doom 

In  all-devouring  flame, 
They  tell  us  of  the  fate  of  Rome, 

And  bid  us  fear  the  same. 
II. 
0*er  Murray*s  loss  the  muses  wept, 

They  felt  the  rude  alarm, 
Yet  bless'd  the  guardian  care  that  kept 

His  sacred  head  from  harm. 

m. 

There  mem*ry,  like  the  bee,  that's  fed 

From  Flora's  balmy  store. 
The  quintessence  of  all  he  road 

Had  treasur'd  up  beforof 
IV. 
The  lawless  herd,  with  fury  blind, 

Have  done  him  cruel  wrong ; 
The  flow'rs  are  gone — ^but  still  we  find 

The  honey  on  his  tongue. 


(188) 

TBB 

LOVE  OF  THE  WORLD  REPROVED 

OR,  HYPOCRISY  DETECTED.* 


THUS  says  the  prophet  of  the  Turk: 
Good  musselman,  abstain  from  pork ; 
There  is  a  part  in  every  swine 
No  friend  or  follower  of  mine 
May  taste,  whate'er  his  inclination, 
Upon  pain  of  excommimication. 
Such  Mahomet's  mysterious  charge, 
And  thus  he  left  the  point  at  large. 
Had  he  the  sinful  part  express'd, 
They  might  with  safety  eat  the  rest ; 
But  for  one  piece  they  thought  it  hard 
From  the  whole  hog  to  be  debarr'd  ; 
And  set  their  wit  at  work  to  find 
What  joint  the  prophet  had  in  mind. 
Much  controversy  straight  arose. 
These  choose  the  back,  the  belly  those ; 
By  some  'tis  confidently  said 
He  meant  not  to  forbid  the  head ; 
While  others  at  that  doctrine  rjul. 
And  piously  prefer  the  tail. 
Thus  conscience  freed  from  ev'ry  clog, 
Mahometans  eat  up  the  hog. 

•  It  may  be  proper  to  inform  the  reader,  that  this  piece 
has  already  appeared  in  print,  having  found  its  way,  thougK 
with  some  unnecessary  additions  by  an  unknown  hand,  into 
the  Leeds  Journal,  without  the  author's  privity. 


HYPOCRISY  DETECTED. 
You  laugh — 'tis  well — The  tale  applied, 
May  make  you  laugh  on  t'other  side, 
Renounce  the  world — ^the  preacher  cries  ; 
"We  do — a  multitude  replies. 
While  one  as  innocent  regards 
A  snug  and  friendly  game  at  cards  ; 
And  one,  whatever  you  may  say, 
Can  see  no  evil  in  a  play  ; 
Some  love  a  concert  or  a  race  ; 
And  others  shooting,  and  the  chace, 
Revil'd  and  lov'd,  renounc'd  and  follow'dly 
Thus,  bit  by  bit,  the  world  is  swallow'd ; 
Each  thinks  his  neighbour  makes  too  free, 
Yet  likes  a  sUce  as  well  as  he : 
With  sophistry  their  sauce  they  sweeteni 
Till  quite  from  tail  to  snout  'tis  eaten. 


OK 

THE  DEATH  OP 

MRS.  (vow  LADt)  THROCKMOBTOir's 

BULFINCH. 


YE  njonphs  I  if  e'er  your  eyes  were  red 
With  tears  o'er  hapless  favorites  shed 

O  share  Maria's  grief ! 
Her  fav'rite,  even  in  his  cage, 
(What  will  not  hunger's  cruel  rage  ?) 

Assassin'd  by  a  thief. 


190  LADY  THROCKMORTON'S  BULFINCH, 
Where  Rlienus  strays  his  vines  among, 
The  egg  was  laid  from  which  he  sprung ; 

And,  though  by  nature  mute, 
Or  only  with  a  whistle  blest, 
Well  taught  he  all  the  sounds  expressed 
Of  flagelet  or  flute. 

The  honours  of  his  ebon  poll 

Were  brighter  than  the  sleekest  mole, 

His  bosom  of  the  hue 
With  which  Aurora  decks  the  skies 
When  piping  winds  shall  soon  arise 

To  sweep  away  the  dew 

Above,  below,  in  all  the  house, 
Dire  foe  alike  of  bird  and  mouse^ 

No  cat  had  leave  to  dwell ; 
And  Bully's  cage  supported  stood 
On  props  of  smooth-shaven  wood, 

Large  built  and  lattic'd  well. 

Well  lattic'd — ^but  the  grate,  alas  ! 
Not  rough  with  wire  of  steel  or  brass, 

For  Bully's  plumage  sake, 
But  smooth  with  wands  from  Ouse's  side, 
With  which,  when  neatly  peal'd  and  driedi 

The  swains  their  baskets  make. 

Night  veil'd  the  pole ;  all  seem'd  secure  , 
When  led  by  instinct,  sharp  and  sure. 

Subsistence  to  provide, 
A  beast  forth  sallied  on  the  scout, 
Long-back'd,  long-tail'd,  with  whislierM  snonty 

Andbadger-colour'd  hide 

He,  entering  at  the  study  door 
Its  ample  area  'gan  explore  } 
And  somethmg  in  the  wind 


THE  ROSE  191 

Gonjectur'd;  fliiiffin^  round  and  round, 
Better  than  all  the  books  he  found, 
Food  chiefly  for  the  mind. 

Just  then,  by  adverse  fate  impressed, 
A  dream  disturb 'd  poor  Bully's  rest} 

In  sleep  he  seem'd  to  view 
A  rat  fast  clinging  to  the  cage,  ,  ,.,, ,, 

And  screaming  at  the  sad  presage,  .  ,  | 

Awoke  and  found  it  true. 

For  aided  both  by  ear  and  scent, 
Bight  to  his  mark  the  monster  went— 

Ah  muse  !  forbear  to  speak 
Minute  the  horrors  that  ensu*d ; 
His  teeth  were  strong,  the  cage  was  wood — 

He  left  poor  Bully's  beak. 

O  had  he  made  that  too  his  prey ; 
That  beak,  whence  issu'd  many  a  lay 

Of  such  mellifluous  tone, 
Might  have  repaid  him  well  I  wote, 
For  silencing  so  sweet  u  throat, 

Fast  stuck  within  his  own. 

Maria  weeps — the  muses  mourn — 
So  when  by  Bacchanalians  torn, 

On  Thracean  Hebrus'  side. 
The  tree-enchanter  Orpheus  fell. 
His  head  alone  remained  to  tell 

The  cruel  death  he  died. 


THE  ROSE. 

The  Rose  had  been  wash'd,  just  wash'd  in  a  show'r 

Which  Mary  to  Anna  convey'd, 
The  plentiful  moisture  encumber'd  the  flow*r 

And  weigh'd  down  its  beautiful  head. 


1^  THE  DOVES. 

The  cup  wa#  all  SlVd,  and  the  leaves  were  all  wet, 

And  it  seem'd  to  a  fandful  view, 
To  weep  for  the  buds  it  had  left  with  regret, 

On  the  flourishing  bush  where  it  grew. 

I  hastily  seiz'd  it,  unfit  as  it  was 

For  a  nosegay,  so  dripping  and  drown'd, 

And  swinging  it  rudely,  too  rudely,  alas ! 
I  snapp'd  it — ^it  fell  to  the  ground. 

And  such,  I  exclaim'd,  is  the  pitiless  part 

Some  act  by  the  delicate  mind. 
Regardless  of  wringing  and  breaking  a  heart 

Already  to  sorrow  resign'd. 

This  elegant  rose,  had  I  shaken  it  less, 
Might  have  bloom'd  with  its  owner  a  while ; 

And  the  tear  that  is  wip'd  with  a  little  address, 
May  be  followed  perhaps  by  a  smilo 


THE  DOVES. 
I. 

REAS'NING  at  evVy  step  he  treads, 

Man  yet  mistakes  his  way. 
While  meaner  things,  whom  instinct  leadi. 

Are  rarely  known  to  stray. 
II. 
One  silent  eve  I  wattder'd  late. 

And  heard  the  voice  of  love : 
The  turtle  thus  address'd  her  mate, 

And  scoth'd  the  list'ning  dove  • 


THE  DOVfeS.  19^ 

m. 

Our  mutual  bond  of  faith  and  truth,  ^.^  ^ 

No  time  shall  disengage,  .'  ,'*  . 

Those  blessings  of  our  early  youth  . 

Shall  cheer  our  latest  age  : 
IV. 
While  innocence  wiUiout  disguise. 

And  constancy  sincere, 
S^iall  fill  the  circles  of  those  eyes. 

And  mine  can  read  them  there. 

'v. 

Those  ills  that  wait  on  all  below, 

Shall  ne^er  be  felt  by  me, 
Or  gently  felt,  and  only  so. 

As  being  shar'd  with  thee. 
VI. 
When  lightnings  flash  among  the  treeSf 

Or  kites  are  hov'ring  near, 
I  fear  lest  thee  alone  they  seize, 

And  know  no  other  fear. 

VII. 
Tis  then  I  feel  myself  a  wife, 

And  press  thy  wedded  side. 
Resolved  a  union  form'd  for  1^;      .  ..       j    . . 

Death  never  shall  divide.     ''^  ''^^^'^  ^'^^  ^^'^} 

.         ;j^  VIIL 

But  oh !  if  fickle  and  unchaste, 

(Forgive  a  transient  thought,) 
Thou  could  become  unkind  at  last, 

And  scorn  thy  present  lot, 

IX. 
No  need  of  lightnings  from  on  high. 

Or  kites  with  cruel  beak ; 
Denied  th*  endearments  of  thine  eye, 
This  widow'd  heart  would  break 
Vol.  I.  17 


194  A  FABLE. 

I  X. 

I     Thus  sang  the  sweet  sequestered  bird, 
{         Soft  as  the  passing  wind, 
And  I  recorded  what  I  heard, 
A  lesson  for  mankind. 


A  FABLE. 


A  RAVEN,  while  with  glossy  breast 
Her  new-laid  eggs  she  fondly  press'd, 
And,  on  her  wicker  work  high  mounted 
Her  chickens  prematurely  coimted, 
(A  fault  philosophers  might  blame 
If  quite  exempted  from  the  same,) 
Enjoy'd  at  ease  the  genial  day ; 
'Twas  April,  as  the  bumpkins  say. 
The  legislature  call'd  it  May. 
I    But  suddenly  a  wind  as  high 
\    As  ever  swept  a  winter  sky, 
I    Shook  the  young  leaves  about  her  ears, 
And  fiU'd  her  with  a  thousand  fears,  ,.  v 

Lest  the  rude  blast  should  snap  the  bough  t 
And  spread  her  golden  hopes  below. 
But  just  at  eve  the  blowing  weather. 
And  all  her  fears  were  hush'd  together : 
And  now,  quoth  poor  unthinking  Ralph, 
*Tis  over,  and  the  brood  is  safe ; 
(For  ravens,  though  as  birds  of  omen 
They  teach  both  conj'rers  and  old  women, 
To  tell  us  what  is  to  befall. 
Can't  prophesy  themselves  at  all ;) 
The  morning  came,  when  neighbour  Hodge 
Who  long  had  mark'd  her  airy  lodge. 


A  COMPARISON.  95 

*'  And  destined  all  the  treasure  there 
A  gift  to  his  expecting  fair, 
CIimb*d  like  a  squirrel  to  his  dray, 
And  bore  the  worthless  prize  away* 


MORAL. 


*Ti8  Providence  alone  secures 
In  ey*ry  change  both  mine  and  jotmi 
Safety  consists  not  in  escape 
From  dangers  of  a  frightful  shape  > 
An  earthquake  may  be  bid  to  spare 
The  man  that's  strangled  by  a  hair. 
Fate  steals  along  with  silent  tread, 
Found  ofl'nest  in  what  least  we  dread, 
Frowns  in  the  storm  with  angry  brow. 
But  in  the  sunshine  strikes  the  blow. 


A  COMPARISON. 


THE  lapse  of  time  and  rivers  is  the  same, 
Both  speed  their  journey  with  a  restless  stream 
The  silent  pace  with  which  they  steal  away, 
No  wealth  can  bribe,  no  pray'rs  persuade  to  stay 
Alike  irrevocable  both  when  past, 
And  a  wide  ocean  swallows  both  at  last. 
Though  each  resemble  each  in  ev'ry  part, 
A  diflfience  strikes  at  length  the  musing  heart ; 


.  96       THE  POET»S  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT. 

Streams  never  flow  in  vain ;  where  streama  abound, 
How  laughs  the  land  with  various  plenty  crown'd  ' 
But  time,  that  should  enrich  the  nobler  mind, 
Neglected  leaves  a  dreary  waste  behind. 


ANOTHER, 

ADDRESSED   TO   A   YOUNCf  LAH*.   * .    **' 

:  .    »  V"J  V»  ril 

SWEET  stream,  that  winds  through  yooder  gbtae. 
Apt  emblem  of  a  virtuous  maid  — 
Silent  and  chaste  she  steals  along, 
Far  from  the  world's  gay  busy  throng; 
With  gentie,  yet  prevailing  force, 
Intent  upon  her  destin'd  course-; 
Graceful  and  useful  all  she  does, 
Blessing  and  bless'd  where'er  she  goes, 
Pure-bosom'd  as  that  wat'ry  glass, 
And  Heav'n  reflected  in  her  face. 


cas^^i  Niw^EAR'S  GIFT. 

TO  MRS.  (NOW  lady)  THROCKMORTOW. 

MARIA !  I  have  ev'ry  good 
For  thee  wish'd  many  a  time, 

Both  sad  and  in  a  cheerful  mood, 
But  never  yet  in  rhyme. 


ODE  TO  APOLLO.  197 

To  wish  thee  fairer  is  no  need, 

More  prudent,  or  more  sprightly, 
Of  more  ingenious,  or  more  freed 

From  temper  flaws  unsightly. 

What-favour  then  not  yet  possess'd 

Can  I  for  thee  require, 
In  wedded  love  already  blest. 

To  thy  whole  heart's  desire  ? 

None  here  is  happy  but  in  part . 

Full  bliss  is  bliss  divine : 
There  dwells  some  wish  in  ev*ry  hearty 

And  doubtless  one  in  thine. 

That  wish  on  some  &ir  future  day, 

Which  Fate  shall  brightly  gild, 
('Tifl  blameless,  be  it  what  it  may,} 

I  wish  it  all  fulflll'd. 


ODE  TO  APOLLO. 


On  an  Inkglass  almost  dried  in  the  « 

PATRON  of  all  those  luckless  brains. 
That,  to  the  wrong  side  leaning. 

Indite  much  metre  with  much  pains, 
And  little  or  no  meaning. 

fl  And  why,  since  oceans,  rivers,  streams, 
That  water  all  the  nations, 
Pay  tribute  to  thy  glorious  beams, 
In  constant  exhalations } 
17* 


198         PAIRING  TIME  ANTICIPATED 
Why,  stooping  from  the  noon  of  day, 

Too  covetous  of  drink, 
Apollo,  hast  thou  stol'n  away 
A  poet's  drop  of  ink  ? 

Upborne  into  the  viewless  air, 

It  floats  a  vapour  now, 
Impell'd  through  regions  dense  and  rare, 

By  all  the  winds  that  blow. 

Ordain'd,  perhaps,  ere  summer  fliesj 
Combin'd  with  millions  more, 
^     To  form  an  Iris  in  the  skies, 

Though  black  and  foul  before. 

Illustrious  drop  !  and  happy  then 

Beyond  the  happiest  lot, 
Of  all  that  ever  passed  my  pen, 

So  soon  to  be  forgot. 

Phoebus,  if  such  be  thy  design, 

To  place  it  in  thy  bow. 
Give  wit,  that  what  is  left  may  shine 

With  equal  grace  below. 

.ojLicHA  OT  aao 


PAIRING  TIME  ANTICIPATED, 

A   FABLE. 

I  SHALL  not  ask  Jean  Jaques  Rosseaui^ 
If  birds  confabulate  or  no ; 

•  It  was  one  of  the  whimsical  speculations  of  this  philoso* 
pher,  that  all  fables,  which  ascribe  reason  and  speech  to  ani- 
mals,  shonld  be  withheld  from  children,  as  being  only  vehicles 
of  deception.  But  what  child  was  ever  deceived  by  them,  or 
can  be,  against  the  evidence  of  his  senses  ? 


PAIRING  TIME  ANTICIPATED  199 

Tifl  clear  that  they  were  always  able 

To  hold  discourse — at  least  in  fable  ; 

And  e'en  the  child  who  knows  no  better. 

Than  to  interpret  by  the  letter, 

A  story  of  a  cock  and  bull, 

Must  have  a  most  uncommon  skull. 

It  chanc'd  then  on  a  winter's  day, 
But  warm,  and  bright,  and  calm  as  May, 
The  birds,  conceiving  a  design 
To  forestall  sweet  St.  Valentine, 
In  many  an  orchard,  copse,  and  grove, 
Assembed  on  affairs  of  love. 
And  with  much  twitter  and  much  chatter, 
Began  to  agitate  the  matter.  .     -^ 

At  length  a  Bulfinch,  who  could  boast  -^ 

More  years  and  wisdom  than  the  most, 
Entreated,  op'ning  wide  his  beak, 
A  moment's  liberty  to  speak  ; 
And,  silence  publickly  enjoin'd, 
Deliver'd  briefly  thus  his  mind  : 

My  friends !  be  cautious  how  ye  treat 
The  subject  upon  which  we  meet ; 
I  fear  we  shall  have  winter  yet. 

A  Finch,  whose  tongue  knew  no  control, 
With  golden  wing,  and  satin  poll, 
A  last  year's  bird,  who  ne'er  had  tried 
What  marriage  means,  thus  pert  replied : 

Methinks  the  gentleman,  quoth  she. 
Opposite  in  the  apple  tree. 
By  his  good  will  would  keep  us  single 
Till  yonder  Heav'n  and  earth  shall  mingle 
Or,  (which  is  likelier  to  befall,) 
Till  death  exterminate  us  all. 
I  marry  without  more  ado. 
My  dear  Diqk  Redcap,  what  say  you  .'* 

Dick  heard,  and  tweedling,  ogling,  bridling. 
Turning  short  round,  strutting,  a»d  sideling. 


800        PAIRING  TIME  ANTICIPATED. 

Attested,  glad,  his  approbatioa 
Of  an  immediate  conjugation. 
Their  sentiments,  so  well  express'd, 
Inflnenc'd  mightily  the  rest, 
All  pair 'd,  and  each  pair  built  a  nest. 

But  though  the  birds  were  thus  in  hastOi 
The  leaves  came  on  not  quite  so  fast, 
And  destiny,  that  sometimes  bears 
An  aspect  stern  on  man's  affairs, 
Not  altogether  smil'd  on  theirs. 
The  wind  of  late  breath'd  gently  forth, 
Now  shifted  east,  and  east  by  north ; 
Bare  trees  and  shrubs  but  ill,  you  know, 
Coujd  shelter  them  from  rain  or  snow. 
Stepping  into  their  nests,  they  paddled, 
Themselves  were  chill'd,  their  eggs  were  addled , 
Soon  ev'ry  father  bird  and  mother 
Grew  quarrelsome,  and  peck'd  each  other, 
Parted  without  the  least  regret, 
Except  that  they  had  never  met ; 
And  learn'd,  in  future,  to  be  wiser 
Than  to  neglect  a  good  adviser. 

MORAL. 

Misses  !  the  tale  that  I  relate 
This  lesson  seems  to  carry — 

Choose  not  alone  a  proper  mate, 
But  proper  time,  to  marry. 


(201) 
THE  DOG 

AND 

THE  WATER-LILY. 

KO   FABLE. 


THE  noon  was  shady,  and  soft  oitB 

Swept  Ouse's  silent  tide, 
When,  scap'd  from  literary  careS) 

I  wander'd  on  his  side. 

My  spaniel,  prettiest  of  his  raco, 

And  high  in  pedigree, 
(Two  nymphs*  adorned  with  ev'ry  grace 

That  spaniel  found  for  me.) 

Now  wantoned  lost  in  flags  and  reods, 

Now  starting  into  sight, 
Pursu'd  the  swallow  o'er  the  meada  A«  oT 

With  scarce  a  slower  flight.  .T 

It  was  the  time  when  Ouse  displayed 

His  lilies  newly  blown ; 
Their  beauties  I  intent  surveyed, 

And  one  I  wish'd  my  own. 

With  cane  extended  far  I  sought 

To  steer  it  close  to  land ; 
But  still  the  prize,  though  nearly  caught, 

Escap'd  my  eager  hand. 

*  Sir  Robert  Gunniiig*s  daughters 


202  THE  POET,  OYSTER,  &c. 

Beau  mark*d  my  unsuccessful  pains 

With  fix'd  considerate  face, 
And  puzzling  set  his  puppy  brains 

To  comprehend  the  case. 

But  with  a  cherup  clear  and  strong, 

Dispersing  all  his  dream, 
I  thence  withdrew,  and  foUow'd  long 

The  windings  of  the  stream. 

My  ramble  ended,  I  return'd ; 

Beau  trotting  far  before, 
The  floating  wreath  again  discem'd. 

And  plunging  left  the  shore. 

I  saw  him  with  that  lily  cropp'd, 

Impatient  swim  to  meet 
My  quick  approach,  and  soon  he  dropp'd 

The  treasure  at  my  feet. 

Charm'd  with  the  sight,  the  world,  I  cried, 

Shall  hear  of  this  thy  deed : 
My  dog  shall  mortify  the  pride 

Of  man's  superiour  breed : 

But  chief  myself  1  will  enjoin, 

Awake  at  duty's  call, 
To  show  a  love  as  prompt  as  thine, 

To  him  who  gives  me  alL 


THE  POET,  THE  OYSTER 


AND 


SENSITIVE  PLANT. 

AN  Oyster,  cast  upon  the  shore. 
Was  heard,  though  never  heard  before, 


THE  f  bfet,  OYSTER,  «&c.  203 

Complaining  in  a  speech  well  worded. 
And  worthy  thus  to  be  recorded — 

Ah,  hapless  wretch  !  condemned  to  dwell 
For  ever  in  my  native  shell ; 
Ordain'd  to  move  when  others  please, 
Not  for  my  own  content  or  ease  • 
But  toss'd,  and  bu^ettcd  about, 
Now  in  the  water,  and  now  out. 
*Twere  better  to  bo  borne  a  stone, 
Of  ruder  shape  and  feeling  none, 
Than  with  a  tenderness  like  mine, 
And  sensibilities  so  fine  ! 
I  envy  that  unfeeling  shrub, 
Fast  rooted  against  ev'ry  rub. 
The  plant  he  meant  grew  not  far  oflf*, 
And  felt  the  sneer  with  scorn  enough ; 
Was  hurt,  disgusted,  mortified, 
And  with  asperity  replied. 

When,  cry  the  botanists,  and  stare. 
Did  plants  call'd  sensitive  grow  there  ? 
No  matter  when — ^a  poet's  muse  is. 
To  make  them  grow  just  where  she  chooees 

You  shapeless  nothing  in  a  dish. 
You  that  are  but  almost  a  fish,        '  '  '    \  i  /'''■* 
I  scorn  your  coarse  insinuatipft,/*^^^*^^'-^^  ^^^^ 
And  have  most  plentiful  occasion,   ' 
To  wish  myself  the  rock  I  view. 
Or  such  another  dolt  as  you : 
For  many  a  grave  and  learned  clerk, 
A  many  a  gay  unletter'd  spark, 
With  curious  touch  examines  me, 
If  I  can  feel  as  well  as  he  ; 
And  when  I  bend,  retire,  and  shrink, 
Says — ^Well,  'tis  more  than  one  would  think  ! 
Thus  life  is  spent,  (oh  fie  upon't !)  O 

In  being  touch'd,  and  crying — ^Don't ! 

A  poet  in  his  ev'ning  walk, 
Overheard,  and  check'd  this  idle  talk 


204  THE  SHRUBBERY. 

And  your  fine  sense,  he  said,  and  yours, 
Whatever  evil  it  endures, 
Deserves  not,  if  so  soon  offended, 
Much  to  be  pitied  or  commended. 
Disputes  though  short,  are  far  too  lon^i 
Where  both  alike  are  in  the  wrong ; 
Yoiu:  feelings  in  their  full  amoimt, 
Are  all  upon  your  own  account. 

You,  in  your  grotto  work  enclosed, 
Complain  of  being  thus  expos'd ; 
Yet  nothing  feel  in  that  rough  coat,  ;  ..,  ^j.-^-p 
Save  when  the  knife  is  at  your  throol^.   .  u^^ 
Where'er  driv*n  by  wind  or  tide,  ,^  j 

Exempt  from  ev*ry  ill  beside.  g^-^ 

And  as  for  you,  my  Lady  Squeamiah|    ..j^i 
Who  reckon  ev*ry  touch  a  blemish, 
If  all  the  plants  that  can  be  found, 
Embellishing  the  scene  around, 
Should  drop  and  wither  where  they  grow, 
You  wouM  not  feel  at  all — not  you. 
The  noblest  minds  their  virtue  prove         ^  ^-/f 
By  pity,  sympathy,  and  love  :  ...t 

These,  these  are  feelings  truly  fine, 
And  prove  their  owner  half  divine. 

His  censure  reach 'd  them  as  he  dealt  itj 
And  each  by  shrinking  showed  he  felt  it. 

oT 

THE  SHRUBBERY. 


WRITTEN  Xlf  A  TIME  OP  AFFLICTiO».' 

I.  -v^l 

OH  happy  shades — ^to  me  unblest ! 

Friendly  to  peace,  but  not  to  me  ! 
How  ill  the  scene,  that  offers  rest, 

And  heart  that  cannot  rest,  agree  * 


mA 


«K 


THE  WINTER  NOSEO^T^^ 

n.      ■"  •"•". ;.  ^ 

This  glassy  stream,  that  spreadmg  piho 

Those  alders  quivering  to  the  breeze, 
Might  sooth  a  soul  less  hurt  than  minei     ;   ^ 

And  please,  if  any  thing  could  please.       | 
III. 
But  fix*d,  unalterable  Care 

Foregoes  not  what  she  feels  within, 
Shows  the  same  sadness  ev*ry  wherp. 

And  slights  the  season  and  the  scene. 
IV. 
For  all  that  pleas'd  in  wood  or  lawn, 

While  peace  possessed  these  silent  bow*Ifly 
Her  animating  smile  withdrawn, 

Has  lost  its  beauties  and  its  pow'js 
V. 
The  saint  or  moralist  should  tread 

This  moss-grown  alley,  musing,  slow; 
They  seek  like  me  the  secret  shade, 

But  not  ji^  jng  tq.npij^i^j^  jfp  I 

Me  iruitiul  scenes  and  prospects  waste. 

Alike  admonish  not  to  roam  3 
These  tell  me  of  enjoyments  past. 

And  those  of  sorrows  vet  to  come. 


206 


/!.* 


*?  JAIITUM 


THE  WlN'TilR  NOSEGAt^'' 


WHAT  Nature,  alas!  has  den^dr^ j\rr|3rp 
To  the  delicate  growth  of  our  isle. 

Art  has  in  a  me*asure  supplied, 
And  winter  is  deck'd  with  a  smile 
Vol.  I  ''^     18 


206  MUTUAL  FORBEARANCE. 

See,  Mary,  what  beauties  I  bring 

From  the  shelter  of  that  sunny  shed, 
Where  the  flow'rs  have  the  charms  of  the  springi 
i        Though  abroad  they  are  frozen  and  dead, 

*  n. 

*Tis  a  bow'r  of  Arcadian  sweets, 

Where  Flora  is  still  in  her  prime, 
A  fortress  to  which  she  retreats 
From  the  cruel  assaults  of  the  clime 
i  While  earth  wears  a  mantle  of  snow, 
!      These  pinks  are  as  fresh  and  as  gay 
\  As  the  fairest  and  sweetest,  that  blow 
■    On  the  beautiful  bosom  of  May 

ni. 

See  how  they  have  safely  surviv'd 

The  frowns  of  a  sky  so  severe  ; 
Such  Mary's  true  love,  that  has  liv'd 

Through  many  a  turbulent  year. 
The  charms  of  the  late  blowing  rose 

Seem'd  grac'd  with  a  livelier  hue, 
And  the  winter  of  sorrow  best  shows, 

Tho  truth  of  a  friend  such  as  you. 


MUTUAL  FORBEARANCE 

»ECXSSAKY  TO  THE  HAPPINESS  OF  THE  MARRIED 
STATE. 

THE  Lady  thus  address'd  her  spouse — 
What  a  mere  dungeon  is  this  house  ! 
By  no  means  large  enough ;  and  was  it, 
Tot  this  dull  room,  and  that  dark  closet 


MUTUAL  FORBEARANCE.  207 

Those  hangings  with  their  worn  out  graces, 
Long  beards;  long  noses,  and  pale  faces, 
Are  such  an  antiquated  scene, 
They  overwhelm  me  with  the  spleen. 
Sir  Humphrey,  shooting  in  the  dark, 
Makes  answer  quite  beside  the  mark  : 
No  doubt,  my  dear ;  I  bade  him  come, 
Engaged  myself  to  be  at  home, 
And  shall  expect  him  at  the  door, 
Precisely  when  the  clock  strikes  four.  j 

You  are  so  deaf,  the  lady  cried, 
(And  rais'd  her  voice,  and  frown'd  beside,) 
You  are  so  sadly  deaf,  my  dear, 
What   shall  I  do  to  make  you  hear  ? 

Dismiss  poor  Harry  !  he  replies ; 
Some  people  are  more  nice  than  wise. 
For  one  slight  trespass  all  this  stir  ? 
What  if  he  did  ride  whip  and  spur, 
'Twas  but  a  mile — ^your  fav'rite  horse 
Will  never  look  one  hair  the  worse. 

Well,  I  protest  'tis  past  all  bearing — 
Child !  I  am  rather  hard  of  hearing — 
Yes,  truly — one  must  scream  and  bawl 
I  tell  you,  you  can't  hear  at  all ! 
Then  with  a  voice  exceeding  low. 
No  matter  if  you  hear  or  no. 

Alas !  and  is  domestick  stife. 
That  sorest  ill  of  human  life, 
A  plague  so  little  to  be  fear'd. 
As  to  be  wantonly  incurr'd, 
To  gratify  a  fretful  passion. 
On  ev'ry  trivial  provocation  ?  ^ 

The  kindest  and  the  happiest  pair 
Will  find  occasion  to  forbear ; 
And  something  ev'ry  day  they  live, 
To  pity,  and,  perhaps,  forgive. 

But  if  infirmities,  that  fall 
In  common  to  the  lot  of  all, 


I  THE  NEGitO'S  COMPLAINT. 

A  blemish  or  a  sense  impair 'd, 
Ate  crimes  so  little  to  be  spar'd, 
Then  farewell  all,  that  must  create 
The  comfort  of  the  wedded  state ; 
Instead  of  harmony,  'tis  jar, 
And  tumult,  and  intestine  war. 

The  love  that  cheers  life's  latest  stage, 
Proof  against  sickness  and  old  age. 
Preserved  by  virtue  from  declension, 
Becomes  not  weary  of  attention ; 
But  lives,  when  that  exteriour  grace, 
Which  first  inspir'd  the  flame,  decays. 
'Tis  gentle,  delicate,  and  kind, 
To  faults  compassionate  or  blind, 
And  will  with  sympathy  endure 
Those  evils,  it  would  gladly  cure  : 
But  angry,  coarse,  and  harsh  expression 
Shows  love  to  be  a  mere  profession ; 
Proves  that  the  heart  is  none  of  his« 
Or  soon  expels  him  if  it  is. 


THE 

NEGRO'S  COMPLAINT 

FORC'D  from  home  and  all  its  pleasures 

Afric's  coast  I  left  forlorn  ; 
To  increase  a  stranger's  treasures, 

O'er  the  raging  billows  borne. 
Men  from  England  bought  and  sold  me, 

Paid  my  price  in  paltry  gold  ; 
But  though  slave  they  have  enroU'd  me, 

Minds  are  never  to  be  sold 


THE  NEGRO'S  COMPLAINT.         209 

Still  in  thought  as  free  as  ever, 

What  are  England's  rights  I  ask| 
Me  from  my  delights  to  sever, 

Me  to  torture,  me  to  task  ? 
Fleecy  locks  and  black  complexion. 

Cannot  forfeit  Nature's  claim  ; 
Skins  may  differ,  but  affection  fj 

Dwells  in  white  and  black  the  same 

Why  did  all-creating  Nature 

Make  the  plant  for  which  we  toil- 
Sighs  must  fan  it,  tears  must  water, 

Sweat  of  ours  must  dress  the  soil. 
Think,  ye  masters,  iron-hearted, 

Lolling  at  your  jovial  boards ; 
Think  how  many  backs  have  smarted 

For  the  sweets  your  cane  affords. 

Is  there,  as  ye  sometimes  tell  us. 

Is  there  one,  who  reigns  on  high  ? 
Has  he  bid  you  buy  and  sell  us. 

Speaking  from  his  throne,  the  sky  ? 
Ask  him,  if  your  knotted  scourges. 

Matches,  blood-extorting  screws, 
Are  the  means  that  duty  urges 

Agents  of  his  will  to  use  ? 

Hark  !  he  answers — ^wild  tornadoes, 

Strewing  yonder  sea  with  wrecks ; 
Wasting  towns,  plantations,  meadows, 

Are  the  voice  with  which  he  speaks. 
He,  foreseeing  what  vexations 

Afric's  sons  should  undergo, 
Fix'd  their  tyrants'  habitations 

Where  his  whirlwinds  answer — ^No. 

By  our  blood  in  Afric  wasted,  ^ 

Ere  our  necks  receiv'd  the  chain ; 
By  the  mis'ries  that  we  tasted. 

Crossing  in  your  barks  the  main , 
18* 


Si 6  PITY  FOR  POOR  AFRICANS. 

By  our  sufTrings  since  ye  brought  us 
To  the  man-degrading  mart : 
All-sustain'd  by  patience,  taught  us 
Only  by  a  broken  heart ; 

Deem  our  nation  brutes  no  longer, 

Till  some  reason  ye  shall  find 
Worthier  of  regard,  and  stronger 

Than  the  colour  of  our  kind. 
Slaves  of  gold,  whose  sordid  dealings 

Tarnish  all  your  boasted  pow'rs, 
Prove  that  you  have  human  feelings, 

Ere  you  proudly  question  ours ! 

\ 


"    PITY  FOR  POOR  AFRICANS. 

Video  meliora  proboque, 
Deteriora  sequor 

I  OWN  I  am  shock'd  at  the  purchase  of  slaves, 

And  fear  those  who  buy  them  and  sell  them  are 

knaves ; 
What  I  hear  of  their  hardships,  their  tortures,  and 

groans, 
Is  almost  enough  to  draw  pity  from  stones. 

I  pity  them  greatly — but  I  must  bo  mum — 
For  how  could  we  do  without  sugar  and  rum  ? 
Especially  sugar,  so  needful  we  see  .^ 
What,  give  up  our  desserts,  our  coffee,  and  tea ! 

Besides,  if  we  do,  the  French,  Dutch  and  Danes, 
Will  heartily  thank  us,  no  doubt,  for  our  pains  : 
If  we  do  not  buy  tne  poor  creatures,  they  will, 
And  tortures  and  groans  will  be  multiplied  still. 


PITY  FOR  AI'RICANS.  211 

If  foreigners  likewise  would  give  up  the  trade, 
Mucn  more  in  behalf  of  your  wish  might  be  said ; 
But,  while  they  get  riches  by  purchasing  blackg, 
Pray  tell  me  why  we  may  not  also  go  snacks  ? 

Your  scruples  and  arguments  bring  to  my  mind 
A  story  so  pat,  you  may  think  it  is  coin'd 
On  purpose  to  answer  you  out  of  my  mint : 
But  I  can  assure  you  I  saw  it  in  print : 

A  youngster  at  school,  more  sedate  than  the  rest, 
Had  once  his  integrity  put  to  the  test ; 
His  comrades  had  plotted  an  orchard  to  rob. 
And  ask'd  him  to  go  and  assist  in  the  job. 

He  was  shock'd,  sir,  like  you,  and  answer'd— "  Oh  no ! 
What !  rob  our  good  neighbour  !  I  pray  you  don't  go ; 
Besides,  the  man's  poor,  his  orchard's  his  bread, 
Then  think  of  his  children,  for  they  must  be  fed  '* 

"  You  speak  very  fine,  and  you  look  very  grave^  ,  ^ 
But  apples  we  want,  and  apples  we'll  have ;  .  -jy[ 
If  you  will  go  with  us,  you  shall  have  a  share, 
If  not,  you  shall  have  neither  apple  nor  pear." 

They  spoke,  and  Tom  ponder'd — "  I  see  they  will  go ; 
Poor  man !  what  a  pity  to  injure  him  so  ! 
Poor  man  !  I  would  save  him  his  fruit  if  I  could 
But  staying  behind  will  do  him  no  good. 

"  If  the  matter  depended  alone  upon  me. 
His  apples  might  hang  till  they  dropped  from  the  tree  ; 
But  since  they  will  take  them,  I  think  I'll  go  to, 
He  will  lose  none  by  me,  though  I  get  a  few." 

His  scruples  thus  silenc*d,  Tom  felt  more  at  eaie, 
And  went  with  his  comrades  the  apples  to  seize ; 
He  blam'd  and  protested,  but  join 'd  in  the  plan  : 
He  shar'd  in  the  plunder,  but  pitied  the  man. 


(212) 

TBB 

MORNING  DREAM. 


'TWAS  in  the  glad  season  of  spring, 

Asleep  at  the  dawn  of  the  day, 
I  dream'd  what  I  cannot  but  sing, 

So  pleasant  it  seem'd  as  I  lay. 
I  dream'd,  that  on  ocean  afloat. 

Far  hence  to  the  westward  I  sail'd, 
While  the  billows  high  Ufted  tlie  boat, 

And  the  fresh-blowing  breeze  never  fkird 

In  the  steerage  a  woman  I  saw, 

Such  at  least  was  the  form  that  she  wore^ 
Whose  beauty  impress'd  me  with  awe, 

Ne'er  taught  me  by  woman  before. 
She  sat,  and  a  shield  at  her  side 

Shed  light  like  a  sun  on  the  waves, 
And  smiling  divinely,  she  cried — 

"  I  go  to  make  freemen  of  slaves." — 

Then  raising  her  voice  to  a  strain 

The  sweetest  that  ear  ever  heard. 
She  sung  of  the  slave's  broken  chain. 

Wherever  her  glory  appear'd. 
Some  clouds,  which  had  over  us  hung 

Fled,  chas'd  by  her  melody  clear. 
And  methought  while  she  liberty  smi|r, 

'Twas  liberty  only  to  hear. 

Thus  swiftly  dividing  the  flood. 
To  a  slave-cultur'd  island  we  came, 

Where  a  demon  her  enemy  stood — 
Oppression  his  terrible  name. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE  AND  GLOWw6Rk.  213 
In  his  hand,  as  the  sign  of  his  sway, 

A  scourge  hung  with  lashes  he  bore, 
And  stood  looking  out  for  his  prey 

From  Africa's  sorrowful  shore. 

But  soon  as  approaching  the  land, 

That  goddess-like  woman  he  view'd, 
The  scourge  he  let  fall  from  liis  hand, 

With  blood  of  liis  subjects  imbru*d. 
I  saw  him  both  sicken  and  die, 

And  the  moment  the  monster  expired, 
Heard  shouts  that  ascended  the  sky, 

From  thousands  with  rapture  inspired. 

Awaking,  how  could  I  but  muse 

At  what  such  a  dream  should  betide  : 
But  soon  my  ear  caught  the  glad  news. 

Which  serv'd  my  weak  thought  for  a  guide<— 
That  Britannia,  renown'd  o'er  the^  waves 

For  the  hatred  she  ever  has  shown 
To  the  black-scepter'd  rulers  of  slares, 

Resolves  to  have  none  of  her  own.. 


NIGHTINGALE  AND  GLOW-WORM 

'    A  NIGHTINGALE,  that  all  day  long 
Had  cheer'd  the  village  with  his  songf. 
Nor  yet  at  eve  his  note  suspended. 
Nor  yet  when  eventide  was  endeli,  • 
Began  to  fee>,  as  well  he  mighty 
The  keen  demands  of  appetite  j^ 


214  THE  NIGHTINGALE  AND  GLOW-WORM 

When  looking  eagerly  around, 

He  spied  far  off  upon  the  ground, 

A  something  shining  in  the  dark, 

And  knew  the  glow-worm  by  his  spark  • 

So  stooping  down  from  hawthorn  top, 

He  thought  to  put  him  in  his  crop. 

The  worm  aware  of  his  intent, 

Harangu'd  him  thus  right  eloquent. 

Did  you  admire  my  lamp,  quoth  ho. 
As  much  as  I  your  minstrelsy, 
You  would  abhor  to  do  me  wrong, 

As  much  as  I  to  spoil  your  song  ; 
For  'twas  the  self-same  pow'r  divine 
Taught  you  to  sing,  and  me  to  shine  ; 
That  you  with  musick,  I  with  light, 
Might  beautify  and  cheer  the  night 
The  songster  heard  his  short  oration. 
And  warbling  out  his  approbation^ 
Releas'd  him  as  my  story  tells. 
And  found  a  supper  somewhere  else. 
Hence  jarring  sectaries  may  learn 
Their  real  int'rest  to  discern ; 
That  brother  should  not  war  with  brotheTy 
And  worry  and  devour  each  other  ; 
But  sing  and  shine  by  sweet  consent. 
Till  life's  poor  transient  night  is  spent. 
Respecting  in  each  other's  case 
The  gifts  of  nature  and  of  grace. 

Those  Christians  best  deserve  the  Dame, 
Who  studiously  make  peace  their  aim  , 
Peace  both  the  duty  and  the  prize 
Of  him  that  creeps,  and  him  that  flies 


C215) 


ON  A  GOLDFINCH, 


tTARYSD  TO  DEATH  IK  HIS  OAGS 


1- 

1  TIME  was  when  I  was  free  as  air, 
I  The  thistle's  downy  seed  my  fare, 
I     My  drmk  the  mornmg  dew  ; 
I  perch'd  at  will  on  ev'ry  spray, 
My  form  genteel,  my  plumage  gay, 
My  strains  for  ever  new. 
II. 
But  gaudy  plumage,  sprightly  strain. 
And  form  genteel,  were  all  in  vain, 

And  of  a  transient  date  ', 
For  caught,  and  cag'd,  and  starv*d  to  death, 
In  dying  sighs  my  little  breath 
Soon  pass'd  the  wiry  grate. 
III. 
Thanks  gentle  swun,  for  all  my  woet, 
And  thanks  for  this  effectual  close 

And  cure  of  ev'ry  ill ! 
More  cruelty  could  none  express ; 
And  I,  if  you  had  shown  me  less, 
Had  been  your  pris'ner  stilL 


(216) 

THE 

PINE-APPLE  AND  THE  BEE. 


THE  pine-apples  in  triple  row, 
Were  basking  hot,  and  all  in  blow  ; 
A  bee  of  most  discerning  taste 
Perceiv'd  the  fragrance  as  he  pass'd, 
On  eager  wing  the  spoiler  came, 
An^  searched  for  crannies  in  the  frame, 
Vrg'h  his  attempt  on  ev'ry  side,  t/rif 

To  ev'ry  pane  his  trunk  applied  5  ,,jr£^ 

But  still  in  vain,  the  frame  was  tight,         .  ^; 
And  only  pervious  to  the  light ; 
Thus  having  wasted  half  the  day, 
He  trimm'd  his  flight  another  way. 

Methuiks,  I  said,  in  thee  I  find 
The  sin  and  madness  of  mankind.  . 

To  joys  forbidden  man  aspires,  .  i^^^^ 

Consumes  his  soul  with  vain  desires  ; 
Folly  the  spring  of  his  pursuit,  - 
And  disappointment  all  the  fruit. 
While  Cynthio  ogles,  as  she  passes,  ^g'  * 

The  nymph  between  two  chariot  glasses, 
She  is  the  pine-apple,  and  he  „^ 

The  silly  unsuccessful  bee.  .  .  / 

The  maid,  who  views  with  pensive  air        '^'' 
The  show-glass  fraught  with  glittering  waife^ 
Sees  watches,  bracelets,  rings,  and  lockets^ 
But  sighs  at  thought  of  empty  pockets ; 
Like  thine,  her  appetite  is  keen, 
But  ah  the  cruel  glass  between. 

Our  dear  delights  are  often  such, 
Expos'd  to  view  but  not  to  touch ', 


Hat. 


HORACE,  BOOK  H.  ODE  X.  21 

The  sight  our  foolish  heart  inflames, 
We  long  for  pine-apples  in  frames ; 
With  hopeless  wish  one  looks  and  lingers ; 
One  breaks  the  glass,  and  cuts  his  fingers  ; 
But  they  whom  truth  and  wisdom  lead, 
Can  gather  honey  from  a  weed. 


HORACE,  BOOK  II.  ODE  X. 


I. 

RECEIVE,  dear  friend,  the  truths  I  teich, 
So  shalt  thou  live  beyond  the  reach 

Of  adverse  Fortune's  pow'r ; 
Not  always  tempt  the  distant  deep, 
Nor  always  timorously  creep 

Along  the  treach'rous  shore. 
II, 
He  that  holds  fast  the  golden  mean, 
And  lives  contentedly  between 

The  little  and  the  great. 
Feels  not  the  wants  that  pinch  the  poor, 
Nor  plagues,  that  haunt  the  rich  man's  door, 

Imbltt'ring  all  his  state. 
III. 
The  tallest  pine  feels  most  the  pow'r 
Of  wintry  blasts  ;  the  loftiest  tower 

Comes  heaviest  to  the  ground  ; 
The  bolts  that  spare  the  mountain's  sidey 
His  cloud-capt  eminence  divide. 

And  spread  the  ruin  round. 
Vol.  I.  19 


218"  A  REFLECTION,  &c. 

IV. 

The  well-inform'd  philosopher 
Rejoices  with  a  wholesome  fear, 

And  hopes  in  spite  of  pain  ;  ''<^* 

If  winter  bellow  from  the  north,  -^i^fi 

Soon  tfie  sweet  spring  comes  dancing  fortl^  ' 

And  nature  laughs  again. 
V. 
What  if  thine  Heav*nbe  overcast, 
The  dark  appearance  will  not  laat  j 

Expect  a  brighter  sky. 
/     The  God  that  strings  the  silver  bow, 
/      Awakes  sometimes  the  muses  too 

And  lays  his  arrows  by. 
VI. 
If  hindrances  obstruct  thy  way, 
Thy  magnanimity  display, 

And  let  thy  strength  be  seen ; 
But  oh  !  if  Fortune  fill  thy  sail 
With  more  than  a  propitious  galo, 

Take  half  thy  canvass  in. 

A  REFLECTION  ON  THE  FOREGOIJNTG  ODE. 

AND  is  this  all  ?  Can  reason  do  no  more, 
Than  bid  mo  shun  the  deep,  and  dread  the  shore. 
Sweet  moralist  ?  afloat  on  life's  rough  sea. 
Tlie  Christian  has  an  art  unknown  to  theo. 
He  holds  no  parley  with  unmanly  fears ; 
Where  duty  bids,  he  confidently  steers. 
Faces  a  thousand  dangers  at  her  call, 
And,  trusting  in  his  God,  surmounts  them  «&. 


(219) 


THE  LILY  AND  THE  ROSE. 


I. 

THE  Nymph  must  lose  her  female  friend. 

If  more  admir'd  than  she — 
But  where  will  fierce  contention  end. 
If  flow'rs  can  disagree  ? 
II. 
Within  the  garden's  peaceful  scene 

Appear'd  two  lovely  foes, 
Aspiring  to  the  rank  of  queen, 
The  Lily  and  the  Rose. 
III. 
.  The  Rose  soon  redden'd  into  rage. 

And  swelling  with  disdain, 
Appeal'd  to  many  a  poet's  page. 
To  prove  her  right  to  reign. 
IV. 
The  Lily's  height  bespoke  command, 

A  fair  imperial  flow'r  ; 
She  seem'd  design'd  for  Flora's  handy 
The  sceptre  of  her  pow'r. 
V. 
This  civil  bick'ring  and  debate 
The  goddess  chanc'd  to  hear. 
And  flew  to  save,  ere  yet  too  late, 
The  pride  of  the  parterre ; 
VL 
Yours  is,  she  said,  the  nobler  hue, 

And  yours  the  stateliei  mien  : 
And  till  a  third  surpasses  you. 
Let  each  be  de^m'd  a  queen 


220  LILIUM  ET  ROSA. 

VII. 
Thus,  sooth'd  and  reconcird,  each  seek* 

The  fairest  British  fair, 
The  seat  of  empire  is  her  cheeks 
Th^  reign  united  there. 


IDEM  LATINE  REDDITUM. 


I. 

HEU  inimicitias  quoties  parit  »mula  forma, 

Quam  raro  pulchroB  pulchra  placere  potest  > 
Sod  fines  ultra  solitos  discordia  tendit, 

Cum  flores  ipsos  bilis  et  ira  movent. 
11. 
Hortus  ubi  dulces  praebet  tacitosque  recussus, 

Se  rapit  in  partes  gens  animosa  duas ; 
Hie  sibi  regales  Amaryllis  Candida  cultus, 

Illic  purpureo  vindicat  ore  Rosa. 
III. 
Ira  Rosam  et  meritis  quaesita  superbia  tangunt, 

Multaque  ferventi  vix  cohibenda  sinu, 
Dum  sibi  fautorum  ciet  undique  nomina  yatnniy 

Jusque  suum,  multo  carmine  fulta,  probat. 
IV. 
Altior  emicat  ilia,  et  celso  vertice  nutat, 

Ceu  flores  inter  non  habitura  parem, 
Fastiditque  alios,  et  nata  videtur  in  usus 

Imperii,  sceptnun.  Flora  quod  ipsa  gerat. 
V. 
Nee  Dea  non  sensit  civilis  murmura  rixas, 

Cui  curse  est  pictas  pandere  ruris  opes. 
Deliciasque  suas  nunquam  non  prompta  tneri, 

Dum  licet  et  locus  est,  ut  tueatur,  adest. 


THE  POPLAR  FIELD.  221 

VI. 
Et  tibi  forma  datur  procerior  omnibus,  inquit ; 

Et  tibi,  p'rincipibus  qui  solet  esse,  color ; 
Et  donee  vincat  quaedam  formosior  ambas, 
Et  tibi  reginas  nomen,  et  esto  tibi. 
VII. 
His  ubi  sedatus  furor  est,  petit  utraque  nympham, 

Qualem  inter  Veneres  Anglia  sola  parit ; 
Hanc  penes  imperium  est,  nihil  optant  amplius,  hujitf 
Regnant  in  nitidis,  et  sine  lite,  genis. 


THE  POPLAR  FIELD 

THE  poplars  are  fell'd,  farewell  to  the  shade, 
And  the  whispering  sound  of  the  cool  colonnade ; 
The  winds  play  no  longer  and  sing  in  the  leavea. 
Nor  Ouse  on  his  bosom  their  image  receives. 

Twelve  years  have  elaps'd  since  I  last  took  a  view 
Of  my  fav'rite  field,  and  the  bank  where  they  grew. 
And  now  in  the  grass  behold  they  are  laid, 
And  the  tree  is  my  seat,  that  once  lent  me  a  shade. 

The  blackbird  has  fled  to  another  retreat, 
Where  the  hazels  afford  him  a  screen  from  the  heat, 
And  the  scene,  where  his  melody  charm'd  me  before. 
Resounds  with  his  sweet-flowing  ditty  no  more. 

My  fugitive  years  are  all  hasting  away, 
And  I  must  ere  long  lie  as  lowly  as  thoy. 
With  a  turf  on  my  breast,  and  a  stone  at  my  head^ 
Gre  another  such  grove  shall  arise  in  its  stead 

Tis  a  sight  to  engage  me,  if  any  thing  can, 
To  muse  on  the  perishing  pleasures  of  man  , 
19* 


222  IDEM  LATINE  REDDITUM. 

Though  his  life  be  a  dream,  his  enjoyments,  I  seOi 
Have  a  being  less  durable  even  than  he.* 


IDEM  LATINE  REDDITUM. 

POPULEiE  cecidit  gratissima  copia  silvesy 
Conticuere  susurri,  omnisque  evanuit  umbra. 
NuUsB  jam  levibus  se  miscent  frondibus  aursB| 
Et  nulla  in  fluvio  ramorum  ludit  imago. 

Hei  mihi !  bis  senos  dum  luctu  torqueor  annos. 
His  cogor  silvis  suetoque  carere  recessu 
Cum  sero  rediens ;  stratasque  in  gramine  cemens, 
Insedi  arboribus,  sub  queis  orrare  solebam. 

Ah  ubi  nunc  merulae  cantus  ?  Felicior  ilium 
Silva  tegit,  dures  nondum  permissa  bipenni ; 
Scilicet  exustos  colles  camposque  patentes 
Odit,  et  indignans  et  non  rediturus  abivit. 

Sed  qui  succisas  doleo  succidar  et  ipse, 
Et  prius  huic  parillis  quam  creverit  altera  silva 
Flebor,  et,  exequiis  parvis  donatus,  habebo 
Defixum  lapidem  tumulique  cubantis  acervum. 

Tam  subito  periisse  videns  tam  digna  manere, 
Agnosco  humanas  sortes  et  tristia  fata — 
Sit  licet  ipse  brevis,  volucrique  simillimus  umbrsB 
Est  homini  brevior  citiusque  obitura  voluptas. 

*  Mr  Cowper  afterwards  altered  tliis  last  stanza  in  tht 
following  manner  :  ^^^ 

The  change  both  my  heart  and  my  fancy  employs 
I  reflect  on  the  frailty  of  man,  and  his  joys; 
Short-livM  as  we  are,  yet  our  pleasures,  we  see, 
Have  a  still  shorter  date,  and  die  sooner  than  we. 


(2»3) 
VOTUM- 


O  MATUTINl  rores,  aurseque  salubres, 
O  nemora,  et  Isetse  rivis  felicibus  herboe, 
Graminei  colles,  et  amaenaB  in  valUbuB  umbras  ! 
Fata  modo  dederint  quas  olim  in  rure  patemo 
Delicias,  procul  arte  procul  formidine  novi, 
Quam  vellem  ignotus,  quod  mens  mea  semper  avebat, 
Ante  larem  proprium  placidam  expectare  senectam, 
Turn  demum,  exactis  non  infeliciter  annis, 
Sortiri  taciturn  lapidem,  aut  sub  cespide  condi ! 


CICINDELA. 


BT  VINCENT  BOURNE. 


Sub  sepe  exiguum  est,  nee  rare  in  margine  ripsB, 

Reptile,  quod  lucet  nocte,  dieque  latet. 
Vermis  habet  speciem,  sed  habet  de  lumine  nomen; 

At  prisca  a  fama  non  liquet,  unde  micet. 
Plerique  a  cauda  credunt  procedere  lumen  ; 

Nee  desunt,  credunt  qui  rutilare  caput. 
Nam  superas  stellas  quse  nox  accendit,  et  illi 

Parcam  eadem  lucem  dat,  moduloque  parem. 
Forsitan  hoc  prudens  voluit  Natura  caveri, 

No  pede  quis  duro  reptile  contereret. 
Exigiiam,  in  tenebris  ne  gressum  offenderet  uUus, 

FroBtendi  voluit  forsitan  ilia  facem. 
Sive  usum  hunc  Natura  parens,  seu  maluit  ilium, 

Haud  frustra  accensa  est  lux,  radiique  dati. 
Pcmite  vos  fastus,  humiles  nee  spernite,  magni ; 

Quando  habet  et  minimum  reptile,  quod  niteat. 


(224) 
I   THE  GLOW-WORM. 

TRANSLATION  OF  THE  FOREGOING. 


I. 

BENEATH  the  hedge,  or  near  the  stream 

A  worm  is  known  to  stray, 
That  shows  by  night  a  lucid  beam, 

"Which  disappears  by  day. 
II. 
Disputes  have  been,  and  still  prevail, 

From  whence  his  rays  proceed  ; 
Some  give  that  honour  to  his  tail, 

And  others  to  his  head. 
III. 
But  this  is  sure — the  hand  of  might, 

That  kindles  up  the  skies. 
Gives  him  a  modicum  of  light 

Proportion'd  to  his  size. 
IV. 
Perhaps  indulgent  Nature  meant, 

By  such  a  lamp  bestow'd, 
To  bid  the  traveller,  as  he  went, 

Be  careful  where  he  trod  ;  / 

V. 
Nor  crush  a  worm,  whose  useful  light 

Might  serve,  however  small, 
So  show  a  stumbling  stone  by  night, 

And  save  him  from  a  fall. 
VI. 
Whate'er  she  meant,  this  truth  divine 

Is  legible  and  plain, 
*Tis  pow'r  almighty  bids  him  shine, 

Nor  bids  him  shine  in  vain. 


CORNICULA.  225 

VII 

Te  proud  and  wealthy,  let  this  theme 

Teach  humbler  thoughts  to  you, 
Smce  such  a  reptile  has  its  gem, 

And  boasts  its  splendour  too.  | 


CORNICULA. 


BY  VINCENT  BOURNE, 


NIGRAS  inter  aves  avis  esrt,  quae  plunma  turrefl 

Antiquas  aedes,  celsaque  Fana  colit. 
Nil  tam  sublime  est,  quod  non  audace  volatu, 

Aeriis  spernens  inferiora,  petit. 
Quo  nemo  ascendat,  cui  non  vertigo  cerebrum 

Corripiat,  certe  hunc  seligit  ilia  locum. 
Quo  vix  a  terra  tu  ^uspicis  absque  tremore, 

Ilia  metu  expers  incolumisque  sedet. 
Lamina  delubri  supra  fastigia,  ventus 

Qua  coBli  spiret  de  regione,  docet ; 
Hanc  ea  prae  reliquis  mavult,  sceuri  poricli, 

Nee  curat,  nedum  cogitat,  undo  cadet. 
Res  inde  humanus,  sed  summa  per  otia,  spectat^ 

Et  nihil  ad  sese,  quas  videt,  esse  videt. 
Concursus  spectat,  plateaque  negotia  in  omni, 

Omnia  pro  nugis  at  sapienter  habet. 
Clam  ores,  quas  infra  audit,  si  forsitan  audit. 

Pro  rebus  nihiU  negligit,  et  crocitat. 
Ille  tibi  invideat,  felix  Cornicula,  pennae, 

Qui  sic  humanis  rebusse  velit 


(226) 
II.  THE  JACKDAW. 

TRANSLATION  OF  THE  FORXGOINO. 


I. 

THERE  is  a  bird  who  by  his  coat, 
Aud  by  the  hoarseness  of  his  note. 

Might  be  suppos'd  a  crow ; 
A  great  frequenter  of  the  churchy 
Where  bishop-like  he  finds  a  perch, 

And  dormitory  too. 

n. 

Above  the  steeple  shines  a  plate, 
That  turns  and  turns  to  indicate 

From  what  point  blows  the  weather  ; 
Look  up — ^your  brains  begin  to  swim, 
'Tis  in  the  clouds — that  pleases  him, 

He  chooses  it  the  rather. 

m. 

Fond  of  the  speculative  height, 
Thither  he  wings  his  airy  flight, 

And  thence  securely  sees 
The  bustle  of  the  raree  show. 
That  occupy  mankind  below. 

Secure  and  at  his  ease. 
IV. 
Tou  think,  no  doubt,  he  sits  and  mofes 
On  future  broken  bones  and  bruisei. 

If  he  should  chance  to  fall. 
No :  not  a  single  thought  like  thai 
Employs  his  philosophick  pate. 

Or  trouVles  it  at  all 


AD  GRILLUM.  227 

V. 
He  sees,  that  this  greut  roundabout, 
The  world,  with  all  its  motley  rout, 

Church,  army,  physick,  law, 
Its  customs,  and  its  businesses, 
Is  no  concern  at  all  of  his. 

And  says — ^what  says  he  ? — Caw. 
VI. 
Thrice  happy  bird  !  I  too  have  seen 
Much  of  the  vanities  of  men; 

And,  sick  of  having  seen  *em. 
Would  cheerfully  these  limbs  resiga 
For  such  a  pair  of  wings  as  thine. 

And  such  a  head  between  'em. 


AD    GRILLUM 


ANACREOMTICUH. 


BY  TINCSKT  BOVRHB*^ 


O  QUI  me®  culin® 
Argutulus  choraulefl, 
£t  hospes  es  canorus, 
Quacimquo  commorena 
Felicitatis  omen ; 
Jucundiore  cantu 
Siquando  me  salutes, 
£t  ipse  te  rependam, 
£t  ipse,  qua  valebo, 
Remunerabo  musa. 


(229) 


HL  THE  CRICKET. 


TRASBJULTIOV  OF  TBE  VOBEOOIIKO^  ^ 


L 

kJTTLE  inmate,  full  of  mirth, 
Chirping  on  my  kitchen  hearth, 
Wheresoe'er  be  thine  abode, 
Always  harbinger  of  good, 
Pay  me  for  thy  warm  retreat 
With  a  song  more  soil  and  sweet 
In  return  thou  shalt  receive 
Such  a  strun  as  I  can  give. 

n. 

Thus  thy  praise  shall  be  ezpress'd, 
Inoffensive,  welcome  guest ! 
While  the  rat  is  on  the  scout, 
And  the  mouse  with  curious  snooti 
With  what  vermin  else  infest 
£v*ry  dish,  and  spoil  the  best ; 
Frisking  thus  before  the  fire. 
Thou  hast  all  thme  heart's  desire. 

in. 

Though  in  voice  and  shape  they  hm 
Form'd  as  if  akin  to  thee, 
Thou  surpassest,  happier  far, 
Happiest  grasshoppers  that  are ; 
Theirs  is  but  a  summer's  song-, 
Th'iie  endures  the  winter  \on<r. 
Unimpair'd,  and  slirill  and  clrtar, 
Melody  throughout  tlie  year. 

ao 


230  SIMILE  AGIT  IN  SIMILE. 

IV. 

Neither  night,  nor  dawn  of  day, 
Puts  a  period  to  thy  play ; 
Sing  then — and  extend  thy  span 
Far  beyond  the  date  of  man. 
Wretched  man  whose  years  are  spent 
In  repining  discontent, 
Lives  not,  aged  though  he  be, 
Haifa  span  compared  with  thee. 


SIMILE  AGIT  IN  SIMILE 

By  Yli^CENT  BoijRinfi. 

CRISTATUS,  pictisque  ad  Thaida  Psittacus  alli, 

Missus  ab  Eoo  munus  amante  venit. 
Ancillis  mandat  primam  formare  loquelam, 

Archididascaliae  dat  sibi  Thais  opus. 
Psittace,  ait  Thais,  fingitque  sonantia  molle 

Basia,  quaB  docilis  molle  refingit  avis. 
Jam  captat,  jam  dimidiat  tyrunculis ;  et  jam 

Integrat  auditos  articulatque  sonos. 
Psittace  mi  pulcher  pulchelle,  hera  dicit  alumno ; 

Psittace  mi  pulcher,  reddit  alumnus  hersB. 
Jamque  canit,  ridet,  deciesque  sBgrotat  in  hora, 

Et  vocat  ancillas  nomine  quamque  suo. 
Multaque  scurratur  mendax,  et  multa  jocatur, 

Et  lepido  populum  detinet  augurio. 
Nunc  tremulum  illudet  fratrem,  qui  suspicit,  et  Pol . 

Garnalis,  quisquis  te  docet,  in  quit,  homo  est ; 
Argutae  nunc  stridet  anus  argutulus  instar  ; 

Respicit,  et  nebulo  es,  quisquis  es,  inquit  anus. 
Quando  fuit  melior  tyro,  meliofve  magistra  ! 

Quando  duo  ingeniJs  tarn  eoicro  pares ' 
Ardua  discenti  nulla  est,  res  nulla  docenti 

Ardua  ;  cum  dcceat  fcEmina,  discat  avis. 


(231) 
ly.  THE  PARROT. 

TEAI^SLaYiON  of  the  F0RE601ir«. 


I. 

IN  painted  plumes  superbly  dressM, 
A  native  of  the  gorgeous  east, 

By  many  a  billow  toss'd  ; 
Poll  gains  at  length  the  British  shorOy 
Part  of  the  captain's  precious  store, 

A  present  to  his  toast. 
II. 
Belinda*s  maids  are  soon  preferr'd 
To  teach  him  now  and  then  a  word. 

As  Poll  can  master  it ; 
But  'tis  her  own  important  charge, 
To  quaUfy  him  more  at  large, 

And  make  liim  quite  a  wit. 

m. 

Sweet  Poll !  his  doating  mistress  crieiy 
Sweet  Poll !  the  mimick  bird  repliei  ; 

And  calls  aloud  for  sack. 
She  next  instructs  him  in  the  kiss ; 
'Tis  now  a  little  one,  like  Miss 

And  now  a  hearty  smack. 
IV. 
At  first  he  aims  at  what  he  hears ; 
And  list'ning  close  with  both  his  ears, 

Just  catches  at  the  sound ; 
B\it  soon  articulates  aloud, 
Much  to  the  amusement  of  the  crowd. 

And  stuns  the  neighbours  round. 


232  TRANSLAli'ON,  &c. 

V. 
A  querulous  old  woman's  voice 
His  hum'rous  talent  next  employs, 

He  scolds,  and  gives  the  lie. 
And  now  he  sings,  and  now  is  sick, 
Here,  Sally,  Susan,  come,  cojfte  ^uick. 

Poor  Poll  is  like  to  die  ! 
VI 
Belinda  and  her  bird !  'tis  rare 
To  meet  with  such  a  well-match'd  pair> 

The  language  and  the  tone, 
Each  character  in  ev'ry  part 
Sustaia'd  with  so  much  gracd  and  arty 

And  both  in  unison. 

VII. 
When  children  first  begin  to  spell, 
And  stammer  out  a  syllable, 

We  think  them  tedious  creatures ; 
But  difficulties  soon  abate, 
When  birds  are  to  be  taught  to  prate, 

And  women  are  the  teachers. 


TRANSLATION 

OF 

PRIOR'S  CHLOE  AND  EUPHELIA 


I. 

MERCATOR,  yigiles  oculos  ut  fallere  posnt, 
Nomine  sub  ficto  trans  mare  mittit  opei ; 

Lene  sonat  liquidumque  meis  Euphelia  chordi% 
Sed  solam  exoptant  te,  mea  vota,  Chloe. 


HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GH^PIN.         233 

n. 

Ad  speculum  omabat  nitidos  Buphelia  crines, 
Cum  dixit  mea  lux,  heus,  cane,  sume  lyram.    ' 

Namque  lyram  juxta  positam  cum  carmine  vidit 
Suave  quidem  carmen  dulcisonamque  lyram 

m. 

Fila  lyrsB  vocemque  paro,  suspiria  surgunt^ 

Et  miscent  nimieris  murmura  maesta  meis 
Dumquo  tujB  meraoro  laudes,  Euphelia,  f»irm8B, 

Tota  anima  interea  pendet  ab  ore  Chloea 
IV. 
Subrubet  ilia  pudore,  et  contrahit  altera  frontem 

Me  torquet  mea  mens  conscia,  psallo,  tremo  ; 
Atque  Cupidinea,  dixit  Dea  cincta  corona, 

Heu !  fallendi  artem  quam  didicere  parum. 


THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY 


JOHN  GILPIN; 

Showing  hoto  he  went  further  than  he  intended^  and 
eame  safe  home  again. 


JQ&t  GILPIN  was  a:  citizen 

Of  credit  and  renown, 
A  trainband  captain  eke  was  he 

Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpm^s  spouse  said  to  her  deary 
Though  wedded  we  have  been 

Tnese  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  wo 
No  holy-day  have  seen. 
20* 


234  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN 

To-morrow  is  our  wedding-day, 

And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  bell  at  Edmonton, 

All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 

My  sister,  and  my  sister's  child, 

Myself,  and  children  three. 
Will  fill  the  chaise ;  so  you  must  ridt 

On  horseback  after  we. 

He  soon  replied,  I  do  admire 

Of  womankind  but  one, 
And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  deary 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

I  am  a  linen-draper  bold. 

As  all  the  world  doth  know, 
And  my  good  friend  the  calender 

Will  lend  his  horse  to  go. 

Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin,  that's  well  saidy 

And  for  that  wine  is  dear, 
We  will  be  furnish'd  with  our  own, 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear. 

John  Gilpin  kiss'd  his  loving  wife ; 

O'erjoy'd  was  he  to  find. 
That  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought^ 

But  yet  was  not  allow'd 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  eUj% 

Where  they  did  all  get  in  ; 
Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 


HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN.  235 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheelf, 

Were  never  folk  so  glad  ; 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse's  side 

Seiz'd  fast  the  flowing  mane, 
And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride, 

But  soon  came  down  again ; 

For  saddle-tree  scarce  reach'd  hid  hOi 

His  journey  to  begin, 
When  turning  round  his  head,  he  iaw 

Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came ,  for  loss  of  time 

Although  it  griev'd  him  sore, 
Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 
*  Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

*Twas  long  before  the  customers 

Were  suited  to  their  mind, 
When  Betty  screaming  came  down  staufi 

«  The  wme  is  left  behmd !" 

Good  lack !  quoth  he — ^yet  bring  it  nuBi 

My  leathern  belt  likewise, 
In  which  I  bear  my  trusty  sword. 

When  I  do  exercise. 

Now  mistress  Gilpin,  (careful  sonl !) 

Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 
To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  lov'd, 

And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear, 

Through  which  the  belt  ho  drew, 
And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side. 

To  make  his  balance  true. 


236  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN. 

-  Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 
Equipped  from  top  to  toe, 
His  long  red  cloak,  well  brush'd  and  neat 
H-e  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  agaia 

Upon  his  nimble  steed. 
Full  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stonefy 

With  caution  and  good  heed.  :  :;  -\ 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 

Beneath  his  well  shod  feet, 
The  snorting  beast  began  to  troty 

Which  gaird  him  in  his  seat. 

So  fair  and  softly,  John  he  criedy 

But  John  he  cried  in  vain, 
That  trot  became  a  gallop  soon. 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein.  ^ 

So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 

Who  cannot  sit  upright, 
He  grasp'd  the  mane  with  both  his  .liaiMl% 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort 

Had  handled  been  before. 
What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 

Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin»  neck  or  naught ; 

Away  went  hat  and  wig ; 
He  little  dreamt  when  he  set  out. 

Of  running  such  a  rig.      .^j-  :i  rc^j.  Lui, 

The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly,     ' 

Like  streamer  long  and  gay. 
Tin,  loop  and  button  failing  both, 

At  last  it  flew  away. 


HISTORY  OB^  JOHN  GILPIN.  237 

Then  might  ^11  people  well  discern 

The  bottles  he  had  slung  ; 
A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side, 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  scream'd, 

Up  flew  the  windows  all ; 
And  ev'ry  soul  cried  out,  well  done ! 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin — ^who  but  he? 

His  fame  soon  spread  aroimd, 
Ho  carries  weight !  he  rides  a  race  ! 

*Tis  for  a  thousand  pound  ! 

And  still,  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 

*Twas  wonderful  to  view, 
How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike  men 
^    Their  gates  wide  open  threw.  i 

And  now  as  he  went  bowing  down  . 

His  reeking  head  full  low, 
The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 

Were  shatter'd  at  a  blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road. 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen. 
Which  made  his  horse's  flanks  to  smoke 

As  they  had  basted  been. 

But  still  he  seem'd  to  carry  weighty 

With  leathern  girdle  brac'd ; 
For  all  might  see  the  bottle-neckfl 

Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 

Thns  all  throug  \  merry  Islington 

These  merry  gambols  he  did  pky. 
Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 

Of  Edmonton  so  gay  ; 


238  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN. 

And  there  he  threw  the  wash  about 

On  both  sides  of  the  way, 
Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 
Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 

From  the  balcony  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wond'ring  mnch 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin— Here's  the  house— 

They  all  at  once  did  cry  ; 
The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tir'd ; 

Said  Gilpin — So  am  I ! 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 
Inclin'd  to  tarry  there  ; 
I    For  why  ? — his  owner  had  a  house 
l       Full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong ; 
So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me' to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin  out  of  breath, 

And  sore  against  his  will. 
Till  at  his  friend  the  calendei 

His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The  calender,  amaz'd  to  see 

His  neighbour  ih  such  trim. 
Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate. 

And  thus  accosted  him :  •  ^v^n^o  iiil8 

What  news  ?  what  news  ?  your  tidings  tell  ? 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall — 
Say  why  bareheaded  you  arc  como, 

Or  why  ycu  como  at  all  ? 


HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN.  239 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit, 

And  lov'd  a  timely  joke  ; 
And  thus  unto  the  calender 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke  ;  ;, , 

I  came  because  your  horse  would  come {-^.ry/ 

And,  if  I  well  forbode, 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here. 

They  are  upon  the  road. 

The  calender  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
Return'd  him  not  a  single  wordy 

But  to  the  house  went  in  : 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig 

A  wig  that  flow'd  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear;. 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 

Thus  show'd  his  ready  wit. 
My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours,  ^  p,    j 

They  therefore  needs  must  fit.  ^  j^ 

But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away      dissoi  oiiT 
That  hangs  upon  your  face ;         .,  ^.  , . , . .-.  ,- 

And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 
Be  in  a  hungry  case. 

Said  John,  it  is  my  wedding  dayj  -<>,^  ♦^^j  j,,fr 

And  all  the  world  would  stare, 
If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmontoni 

And  I  should  dine  at  Ware. 

So  turning  to  his  horse,  he  saidi 

I  am  in  haste  to  dine  ; 
*Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  hero. 

You  shall  go  back  for  mine 


240  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN. 

Ah,  luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast » 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear ; 
For,  while  he  spake,  a  Braying  asf 

Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear. 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  h© 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar, 
And  gallop'd  off  with  all  his  might, 

As  he  had  done  before. 


.IT 


Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig  ;  ' 

He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  firrty  ^^ 

For  why — they  were  too  big. 

Now  mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 

Her  husband  posting  down 
Into  the  country  far  away, 

Slje  puUM  out  half  a  crown ; 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said, 

That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 
This  shall  be  yours,  when  you  bring  twek 

My  husband  safe  and  well. 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet, 

John  coming  back  amain  : 
Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop, 

By  catching  at  his  rein ; 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 

And  gladly  would  have  done, 
The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more,  ''^ 

And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  postboy  at  his  heels. 
The  postboy's  horse  right  glad  to 

The  lurab'ring  of  the  wheels. 


inSTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN.  241 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road. 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 
With  postboy  ic«iiiip^jfiHgiinj<liiB  rear, 

They  rais'd  the  hue  and  cry : — 

Stop  thief!  stop  thief! — a  highwajrman* 

Not  one  of  them  was  mute ; 
AiibKFaU  ilni  eich  tliil^i^s^d  that  Wiftjr 

Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short»:  :Space  ; 
The  toll-men  thinking  as  before, 

That  Gilpui.  xodei  a  xace. 

And  80  ho  <U4f  a^d  won  it  too. 

For  he  got  first  to  town ; 
Nor  stopp'd  tiil  where  he  did  get  up 

He  did  aga^l  get  4oy(r|ij,  ,,^^ , , , ^ 

Now  let  us  sing,  lon^  Ifvii  i&e  ISiig, 

And  Gilpin  long  Ktre  he ; 
And  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 

May  Ibe  there  to  see!  >o  ibfq^;^ 

Vol.  I 


nq  hiofiv/ 


AN  EPISTLE 


AN  AFFUCTED  PROTESTANT  LADY 


IN   FRANCE. 


Madaniy  -.r.n  vin 

A  STRANGER'S  purpose  in  these  li^""^^^ 
Is  to  congratulate,  and  not  to  praise. 
To  give  the  creature  the  Creator's  due 
Were  sin  in  me,  and  an  offence  to  you. 
From  man  to  man,  or  e'en  to  woman  paid 
Praise  is  the  medium  of  a  knavish  trade, 
A  coin  by  Craft  for  Folly's  use  design'd, 
Spurious,  and  only  current  with  the  blind. 

The  path  of  sorrow,  and  that  path  aloms 
Leads  to  the  land  where  sorrow  is  unknown  * 
No  trav'ller  ever  reach'd  that  blest  abode^ 
Who  found  not  thorns  and  briers  in  the  road. 
The  World  may  dance  along  the  flow'ry  plain, 
Cheer'd  as  they  go  by  many  a  sprightly  strain, 
Where  Nature  has  her  mossy  velvet  spread. 
With  unshod  feet  they  yet  securely  tread ; 
Admonish'd,  scorn  the  caution  and  the  friend, 
Bent  all  on  pleasure,  heedless  of  its  end. 
But  he,  who  knew  what  human  hearts  would  proT»| 
How  slow  to  learn  the  dictates  of  his  love, 
That,  hard  by  nature  and  of  stubborn  will, 
A  life  of  ease  would  make  them  harder  stilly 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  A  LADY.  243 

In  pity  to  the  souls  his  grace  design*d 
To  rescue  from  the  ruins  of  mankind, 
Call'd  for  a  cloud  to  darken  all  their  years, 
And  said,  "  Go,  spend  them  in  the  vale  of  teaPB.** 
O  balmy  gales  of  soul-reviving  air  ! 
O  salutary  streams  that  murmur  there  ! 
These  flowing  from  t'he  fount  of  grace  above, 
Those  breath 'd  from  lips  of  everlasting  love. 
The  flinty  soil  indeed  their  feet  annoys ; 
Chill  blasts  of  trouble  nip  their  springing  joys; 
An  envious  world  will  interpose  its  frowou 
To  mar  delights  superiour  to  its  o^^ 
And  many  a  pang,  oxperienc'd  still  within 
Remind  tliem  of  their  hated  inmate,  sin  ; 
But  ills  of  ev*ry  shade  and  ev'ry  name, 
Transformed  to  blessings,  miss  their  cruel  aim; 
And  ev'ry  moment's  calm,  that  soothes  the  breasty 
Isgiv'n  in  earnest  of  eternal  rest 

Ah,  be  not  sad,  although  thy  lot  be  cast 
Far  from  the  flock,  and  in  a  boundless  waste ! 
No  shepherds'  tents  within  thy  view  appear. 
But  the  chief  Shepherd  even  there  is  near ; 
Thy  tender  sorrows,  and  thy  plaintive  strain 
Flow  in  a  foreign  land,  but  not  in  vain ; 
Thy  tears  aU  issue  from  a  source  divine, 
And  ovVy  drop  bespeaks  a  Saviour  thine — 
So  once  in  Gideon's  fleece  the  dews  were  fbnnd, 
And  drongH  on  all  the  drooping  herbs  aronnd. 


(244) 

■  ty  filial 

TO   THE  ;.,^.     .f 

'  '^'  *•  ' 

:.;?   l/iif.    t 

REV;  W.  CAWTHORNE  UNWDl  u/ 


I. 

UNWIN,  I  should  but  ill  repay 

The  kindness  of  a  friend, 
Whose  worth  deserves  as  warm  a  lay 

As  ever  friendship  penn*d, 
Thy  name  omitted  in  a  page 
That  would  reclaim  a  vicious  ag©. 

^_""; ';     ^.■■'    II.' 

A  uiuon  form*d,  as  mine  with  the«| 

Not  rashly,  nor  in  sport, 
May  be  as  fervent  in  degree, 

And  faithful  in  its  sort, 
And  may  as  rich  m  comfort  prove, 
As  that  of  Itij^e  fraternal  ioye. 

The  bud  mserted  in  the  rind,;  .1.1  «  m  ^^r.ii 

The  bud  of  peach  or  rose,       ^  ila  eiisai  jii'V 

Adorns,  though  differing  in  its  kMi  ...ifi  7-1  vj>  hnA 
The  stock  whereon  it  grows,  u-..>hiO  ai  aami  ^-i 
With.flaw*r  as  sweet,  or  fri^t  as  fair,, .  Hjiifoib  f  ^ 
As  if  produc  'd  by  Nature  there. 

IV. 
Not  rich,  I  render  what  I  may, 

I  seize  thy  name  in  haste, 
And  place  it  in  this  first  essay, 

Lest  this  should  prove  the  last. 
'Tis  where  it  should  be — in  a  plan, 
That  holds  in  view  the  good  of  man. 


TO  THE  REV.  W.  C.  UNWIN.  245 

V. 
The  poet's  lyre,  to  fix  his  fame.. 

Should  be  the  poet's  heart ', 
Afibction  lights  a  brighter  flame 

Than  ever  blaz*d  by  art. 
No  muses  on  these  lines  attend> 
I  sink  the  poet  in  the  friend. 


END  OF  VOL.  I. 


POEMS,     ^ 

BT 

WILLIAM  COWPER,  ESQ. 

TOOETHEH  WITH   HIS 

POSTHUMOUS  POETRY, 

Ain> 

A  SKETCH  OF  HIS  LIFE 

BY  JOHN  JOHNSON,  LL.   D. 

THREE   VOLUMES   IN    ONE. 
NEW  EDITION. 

BOSTON: 

PHILLIPS,    SAMPSON,   AND    COMPANY. 

NEW  YORK :  J.  C.  DERBY. 
1855. 


^     ,^.  MaOl 


paa  Ha^Y/oii  mau 


Yii'V^i^']   3U0M' 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  history  of  the  following  production,  is  briefly 
tJiiy  A  lady,  fond  of  blank  voreo,  demanded  a  poem 
of  that  kind  from  the  author,  and  gave  him  the  Sofa 
for  a  subject.  He  obeyed  ;  and,  having  much  leisure, 
connected  another  subject  with  it ;  and  pursuing  the 
train  of  thought  to  which  his  situation  and  turn  of 
mind  led  him,  brought  forth,  at  length,  instead  of  the 
trifle  which  he  at  first  intended,  a  serious  aflfair — a 
Volume  ' 

In  the  poem  on  the  suoject  of  Education,  ho  would 
be  very  sorry  to  stand  suspected  of  having  aimed  his 
censure  at  any  particular  schoo).  His  objections  are 
such  as  naturally  apply  themselves  to  schools  in  ge- 
neral. If  there  were  not,  as  for  the  most  part  there  is, 
wilful  neglect  in  those  who  manage  them,  and  an 
omission  even  of  such  discinline  as  they  are  suscepti- 


ADVERTISEMENT. 
bie  of,  the  objects  are  yet  too  numerous  for  minute 
attention  :  and  the  aching  hearts  of  ten  thousand  pa- 
rents, mourning  under  th«  bitterest  of  all  disappoint- 
ments, attest  the  truth  of  the  allegation.  His  quarrel, 
therefore,  is  with  the  mischief  at  large,  and  not  witk 
any  particular  instance  of  it. 


-Ci^t- 


CONTENTS. 


C;i;> 


Thb  Task,  in  Six  bQok».  -        -  .1  loi  ornQiWIb 

-Bool/l^Thft  Sofe,  -      *    '  ^^-  '^  ^^^-  ''%^.  7 

I  O^The  Time-piece, ->^4;  l-^JLon     -      29 

oTB  ':hie  Garden,  ^        -        -        -        -  52 

fh^  Winter  Eveningr,  -  -  •  ^76 
le  Winter  Morning  Walk/-/:?  ^  "IIT  ^^ 
he  Winter  Walk  at  noon,  -3^7-  ^"*^/l23 
>seph  Hill,  Esq.  -  -  -  .  155 
Tirocinium  :  or,  a  Review  of  Schools,  -  -  ib.  ^ 
To  the  Reverend  Mr.  Newton,  -  -  .  180  \/ 
>n  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother's  Picture  but  (if  ^,*..<.,,,,^ 

No/folk, ^SE^ 

Friendship, -        •         185 

The  Moralizer  corrected,  ...  191 

Catharina,  • 193 

The  Faitliful  Bird, 195 

l^he  Needless  Alarm,      -        -        -        -  196 

Boadipea,  .  .  .        «  200 

Heroism,         -         -  -        -  202 

On  a  mischievous  Bull,  which  the  Owner  of 

him  spld  at  the  Author's  instance,    -        -    205 
Annus  Memorablis,  1789.    Written  in  comme- 
moration of  his  majesty's  happy's  reco- 
very,      206 

Hymn  for  the  use  of  the  Sunday  School  at  01* 

ney,  .       -        .  -  -    208 


i^ 


CONTENTS. 

Pag* 
Stanis««/  subjoined  to  a  Bill  of  Mortality  for  the 

yearl78r^     •        -  -209 

The  same  for  1788,    -    'U^/'OC)        •        -  211 

The  same  for  1789,        .        -        .        .        .  213 

The  same  for  1790, 214 

The  same  for  1792,          -        .        .        -        -  216 

The  same  for  1793,    -        -        .        -        -        -  21S 

Inscription  for  the  tomb  of  Mr.  Hamilton,      •  220.      » 

*  Epitaph  on  a  Hare       -  ,     -                 -       -        -  ^5^  \/ 

Epitaphium  Alteram, 222 

Accountof  the  Authc!j*ft^5Ba|m^t  of  Hares,    -  221 
W  ^rrifnoM  ir> 


THE  TASK* 


THE  SOFA. 


ARGUMENT  OP  THE  FIRST  BOOK. 

Historical  deduction  of  seats^  from  the  Stool  to  the  Sofa — A 
Schoolboy's  ramble — A  walk  in  the  country — The  scene  described 
— Rural  sounds  as  well  as  sights  delightful — AnoTher  walk- 
Mistake  concerning  the  charms  of  solitude  corrected — Colonnades 
commended — Alcove,  and  the  view  from  it — The  wilderness- 
The  grove — The  thresher — The  necessity  and  benefit  of  exercise 
—The  works  of  nature  superiour  to,  and'in  some  instances  inimi- 
table by,  art — The  wearisomeness  of  what  is  commonly  called  a 
life  of  pleasure — Change  of  scene  sometimes  expedient— A  com- 
mon described,  and  the  character  of  crazy  Kate  introduced — 
Gipsies — The  blessings  of  civilized  life — That  state  most  favour- 
able to  virtue — The  South  Sea  islanders  compassionated,  but 
chiefly  Omai — His  present  state  of  mind  supposed — Civilized 
life  friendly  to  virtue,  but  not  great  cities — Great  cities,  and  Lon- 
don in  particular,  allowed  their  due  praise,  but  censured — F^te 
champ^tre — The  book  concludes  with  a  reflection  on  the  fatal 
effects  of  dissipation  and  effeminacy  upon  our  public  measures. 


I  SING  the  Sofa.    I,  who  lately  sang 

Truth,  Hope,  and  Charity,*  and  touch'd  with  awe 

The  solemn  chords,  and,  with  a  trembling  hemd, 

Escap'd  with  pain  from  that  advent'rous  flight, 

Now  seek  repose  upon  an  humbler  theme  ;  6 

The  theme,  though  humble,  yet  august  and  proud 

Th'  occasion — for  the  fair  commands  the  song. 

Time  was,  when  clothing,  sumptuous  or  for  use, 
Save  their  own  painted  skins,  our  sires  had  none 
As  yet  black  breeches  were  not ;  satin  smooth,  10 

Or  velvet  soft,  or  plush  with  shaggy  pile  : 
The  hardy  chief,  upon  the  rugged  rock 
Wash'd  by  the  sea,  or  on  the  gr«avelly  bank 
*  See  Foems,  Voi-.  I- 


^  THE  TASK. 

Thrown  up  by  wintry  torrents  roaring  loud, 

Fearless  of  wrong,  repos'd  his  weary  strength.         15 

Those  barb'rous  ages  past,  succeeded  next 

The  birthday  of  Invention  ;  weak  at  first, 

Dull  in  design,  and  clumsy  to  perform. 

Joint-stools  were  then  created  ;  on  three  legs 

Upborne  they  stood.     Three  legs  upholding  firm      20 

A  massy  b!ab,  in  fashion  square  or  round. 

On  such  a  stool  immortal  Alfred  sat, 

And  sway'd  the  sceptre  of  his  infant  realms : 

And  such  in  ancient  halls  and  mansions  drear 

May  still  be  seen  ;  but  perforated  sore,  25 

And  drill'd  in  holes,  the  solid  oak  is  found. 

By  worms  voracious  eating  through  and  through. 

At  length  a  generation  more  refin'd 
Improv'd  the  simple  plan ;  made  three  legs  four, 
Gave  them  a  twisted  form  vermicular,  30 

And  o'er  the  seat,  with  plenteous  wadding  stu^Td, 
jnduc'd  a  splendid  cover,  green  and  blue. 
Yellow  and  red,  of  tapestry  richly  wrought 
And  woven  close,  or  needlework  sublime. 
There  might  ye  see  the  piony  spread  wide,  35 

The  full-blown  rose,  the  shepherd  and  his  lass, 
Lapdog  and  lambkin  with  black  staring  eyes. 
And  parrots  with  twin  cherries  in  their  beak. 

Now  came  the  cane  from  India,  smooth  and  bright, 
With  nature's  varnish  ;  sever'd  into  stripes,  4# 

That  interlac'd  each  other,  these  supplied 
Of  texture  firm  a  lattice-work,  that  brac'd 
The  new  machine,  and  it  became  a  chair. 
But  restless  was  the  chair  ;  th6  back  erect 
Distress'd  the  weary  loins,  that  felt  no  ease  ;  45 

The  slipp'ry  seat  betrayed  the  sliding  part 
That  press'd  it,  and  the  feet  hung  dangling  down, 
Anx:ious  in  vain  to  find  the  distant  floor. 
These  for  the  rich  ;  the  rest,  whom  Fate  had  plac'd 
in  modest  mediocrity,  content  50 

With  base  materials,  sat  on  well-tann'd  hides, 


THE  SOFA.  9 

Obdurate  and  unyielding,  glassy  smooth, 
With  here  and  there  a  tuft  of  crimson  yarn, 
Or  scarlet  crewel,  in  the  cushion  fix'd, 
If  cushion  might  be  call'd,  what  harder  seem'd         55 
Than  the  firm  oak,  of  which  the  frame  was  formed. 
No  want  of  timber  then  was  felt  or  fear'd 
In  Albion's  happy  isle.     The  lumber  stood 
Pond'rous  and  fix'd  by  its  own  massy  weight. 
But  elbo\ys  still  were  wanting ;  these,  some  say,      60 
An  alderman  of  Cripplegate  contrived  ; 
And  some  ascribe  th'  invention  to  a  priest 
Burly,  and  big,  and  studious  of  his  ease. 
But  rude  at  first,  and  not  with  easy  slope 
Receding  wide,  they  press'd  against  the  ribs,  65 

And  bruis'd  the  side  ;  and,  elevated  high. 
Taught  the  rais'd  shoulders  to  invade  the  ears. 
Long  time  elaps'd  or  e'er  our  rugged  sires 
Complain'd,  though  incommodiously  pent  m, 
And  ill  at  ease  behind.     The  ladies  first  70 

Gan  murmur,  as  became  the  softer  sex.^ 
Ingenious  Fancy,  never  better  pleas'd 
Than  when  employ'd  t'  accommodate  the  fair, 
Heard  the  sweet  moan  with  pity,  and  devis'd 
The  soft  settee  ;  one  elbow  at  each  end,  76 

And  in  the  midst  an  elbow  it  receiv'd. 
United,  yet  divided,  twain  at  once. 
So  sit  two  kings  of  Brentford  on  one  throne ; 
And  so  two  citizens,  who  take  the  air. 
Close  pack'd,  and  smiling,  in  a  chaise  and  one.  80 

But  relaxation  of  the  languid  frame. 
By  soft  recumbency  of  outstretch'd  limbs. 
Was  bliss  reserv'd  for  happier  days.     So  slow 
The  growth  of  what  is  excellent ;  so  hard 
T'  attain  perfection  in  this  nether  world.  85 

Thus  first  Necessity  invented  stools. 
Convenience  next  suggested  elbow-chairs, 
And  Luxury  th'  accomplish'd  Sofa  last. 


10  THE  TASK. 

The  nurse  sleeps  sweetly,  hir'd  to  watch  the  sick 
Whom  snoring  she  disturbs.     As  sweetly  he,  90 

Who  quits  the  coach-box  at  a  midnight  hour, 
To  sleep  within  the  carriage  more  secure, 
His  legs  depending  at  the  open  door. 
Sweet  sleep  enjoys  the  curate  in  his  desk, 
The  tedious  rector  drawling  o'er  his  head  ;  95 

And  sweet  the  clerk  below.     But  neither  sleep 
Of  lazy  nurse,  who  snores  the  sick  man  dead  ; 
Nor  his,  who  quits  the  box  at  midnight  hour 
To  slumber  in  the  carriage  more  secure ; 
Nor  sleep  enjoy 'd  by  curate  in  his  desk ;  100 

Nor  yet  the  dozings  of  the  clerk,  are  sweet, 
Compar'd  with  the  repose  the  Sofa  yields. 

O  may  I  live  exempted  (while  1  live 
Guiltless  of  pamper 'd  appetite  obscene) 
From  pangs  arthritic,  that  infest  the  toe  105 

Of  libertine  Excess.     The  Sofa  suits 
The  gouty  limb,  'tis  true  :  but  gouty  limb, 
Though  on  a  Sofa,  may  I  never  feel : 
For  I  have  lov'd  the  rural  walk  through  lanes 
Of  grassy  swarth,  close  cropp'd  by  nibbling  sheep,  110 
And  skirted  thick  with  intertexture  firm 
Of  thorny  boughs  ;  have  lov'd  the -rural  walk 
O'er  hills,  through  valleys,  and  by  rivers'  brink, 
E'er  since  a  truant  boy  I  pass'd  my  bounds 
T*  enjoy  a  ramble  on  the  banks  of  Thames ;  115 

And  still  remember,  not  without  regret, 
Of  hours,  that  sorrow  since  has  much  endeared, 
How  oft,  my  slice  of  pocket  store  consum'd, 
Still  hung'ring,  pennyless,  and  far  from  home, 
I  fed  on  scarlet  hips  and  stony  haws,  120 

Or  blushing  crabs,  or  berries,  that  emboss 
The  bramble,  black  as  jet,  or  sloes  austere. 
Hard  fare  !  but  such  as  boyish  appetite 
Disdains  not ;  nor  the  palate,  undeprav'd 
By  culinary  arts,  unsav'ry  deems.  125 


THE  SOFA.  11 

tio  Sofa  then  awaited  my  return  ; 
Nor  Sofa  thon  I  needed.     Youth  repairs 
His  wasted  spirits  quickly,  by  long  toil 
Incurring  short  fatigue  ;  and,  though  our  years, 
As  life  declines,  speed  rapidly  away,      /  130 

And  not  a  year  but  pilfers  as  he  goes  v 
Some  youthful  gr^ce,  that  a^e  would  gladly  keep  ; 
A  tooth  or  auburn  lock,  and  by  degrees 
Their  length  and  colour  from  the  locks  they  spare ; 
The  clastick  spring  of  an  unwearied  foot,  135 

That  mounts  the  stile  with  ease,  or  leaps  the  fence ; 
That  play  of  lungs,  inhaling  and  again 
Aespiring  freely  the  fresh  air,  that  makes 
Swift  pace  or  steep  ascent  no  toil  to  me, 
Mine  have  not  pilfer'd  yet ;  nor  yet  impaired  140 

My  relish  of  fair  prospect ;  scenes  that  sooth'd 
Or  charm'd  me  young,  no  longer  young,  I  find 
Still  soothing,  and  of  pow'r  to  charm  me  still. 
And  witness,  dear  companion  of  my  walks, 
Whose  arm  this  twentieth  winter  I  perceive  145 

Fast  lock'd  in  mine,  with  pleasure  such  as  love, 
Confirm'd  by  long  experience  of  thy  worth 
And  well-tried  virtues,  could  alone  inspire — 
Witness  a  joy  that  thou  hast  doubled  long. 
Thou^now'st  my  praise  of  nature  most  sincere,     150 
And  that  my  raptures  are  not  conjur'd  up 
To  serve  occasions  of  poetic  pomp, 
But  genuine,  and  art  partner  of  them  all. 
How  oft  upon  yon  eminence  our  pace 
Has  slacken'd  to  a  pause,  and  we  have  borne  165 

The  ruffling  wind,  scarce  conscious  that  it  blew, 
While  Admiration,  feeding  at  the  eye. 
And  still  unsated,  dwelt  upon  the  scene 
Thence,  with  what  pleasure  have  we  just  discerned 
The  distant  plough  slow  moving,  and  beside  160 

His  lab'rins  team,  that  swerv'd  not  from  the  track. 
The  sturdj'  swain  diminish'd  to  a  boy  ! 
Here  Ouse,  slow  winding  through  a  level  plain 


12  THE  TASK. 

Ot  spacious  meads,  with  cattle  sprinkled  o  er, 
Conducts  the  eye  along  his  sinuous  course  166 

Delighted.     There,  fast  rooted  in  their  bank, 
'   Stand,  never  overlook'd,  our  favorite  elms, 
•  That  screen  the  herdsman's  solitary  hut ; 
While  far  beyond,  and  overthwart  the  stream, 
That,  as  with  molten  glass,  inlays  the  vale,  170 

The  sloping  land  recedes  into  the  clouds ; 
Displaying  on  its  varied  side  the  grace 
Of  hedge-row  beauties  numberless,  square  tow*r, 
Tall  spire,  from  which  the  sound  of  cheerful  bells 
Just  undulates  upon  the  list'ning  ear,  175 

Groves,  heaths,  and  smoking  villages,  remote. 
Scenes  must  be  beautiful,  which  daily  view'd 
Please  daily,  and  whose  novelty  survives 
Long  knowledge  and  the  scrutiny  of  years. 
Praise  justly  due  to  those  that  I  describe.  180 

Nor  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds. 
Exhilarate  the  spirit,  and  restore 
The  tone  of  languid  Nature.     Mighty  winds, 
That  sweep  the  skirt  of  some  far-spreading  wood 
Of  ancient  growth,  make  music  not  unlike  185 

The  dash  of  Ocean  on  his  winding  shore. 
And  lull  the  spirit  while  they  fill  the  mind  j 
Unnumber'd  branches  waving  in  the  blast. 
And  all  their  leaves  fast  flutt'ring,  all  at  once. 
Nor  less  composure  waits  upon  the  roar  190 

Of  distant  floods,  or  on  the  softer  voice 
Of  neighb'ring  fountain,  or  of  rills  that  slip 
Through  the  cleft  rock,  and  chiming  as  they  fall 
Upon  loose  pebbles,  lose  themselves  at  length 
In  matted  grass,  that  with  a  livelier  green  195 

Betrays  the  secret  of  their  silent  course. 
Nature  inanimate  employs  sweet  sounds. 
But  animated  nature  sweeter  still, 
To  sooth  and  satisfy  the  human  ear. 
Ten  thousand  warblers  cheer  the  day,  and  one        200 
The  livelong  night ;  nor  these  alone,  whose  notes 


THE  SOFA.  18 

Nice-finger'd  Art  must  emulate  in  vain, 
But  cawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sublime 
In  still-repeated  circles,  screaming  loud, 
The  jay,  the  pie,  and  e'en  the  boding  owl,  205 

That  hails  the  rising  moon,  have  charms  for  me, 
Sounds  inharmonious  in  themselves  and  harsh, 
Yet  heard  in  scenes  where  peace  for  ever  reigns, 
And  only  there,  please  highly  for  their  sake. 

Peace  to  the  artist,  whose  ingenious  thought       210 
,  Devis'd  the  weatherhouse,  that  useful  toy  ! 
Fearless  of  humid  air  and  gath'ring  rains, 
Forth  steps  the  man — an  emblem  of  myself ! 
More  delicate  his  tim'rous  mate  retires. 
When  Winter  soaks  the  fields,  and  female  feet,       215 
Too  weak  to  struggle  with  tenacious  clay, 
Or  ford  the  rivulets,  are  best  at  home, 
The  task  of  new  discov'ries  falls  on  me. 
At  such  a  season,  and  with  such  a  charge, 
Once  went  I  forth ;  and  found,  till  then  unknown,  220 

•  A  cottage,  whither  oft  we  since  repair  : 

'Tis  perch'd  upon  the  green  hill  top,  but  close 

•  Environ'd  with  a  ring  of  branching  elms, 
That  overhang  the  thatch,  itself  unseen 

Peeps  at  the  vale  below  ;  so  thick  beset  225 

With  foliage  of  such  dark  redundant  growth, 
I  call'd  the  low-roof 'd  lodge  the  peasant's  nest,  \J 
And,  hidden  as  it  is,  and  far  remote 

/From  such  unpleasing  sounds  as  haunt  the  ear 
In  village  or  in  town,  the  bay  of  curs  230 

Incessant,  clinking  hammers,  grinding  wheels. 
And  infants  clam'rous  whether  pleas'd  or  pained, 
Ofl  have  I  wish'd  the  peaceful  coveret  mine. 
Here,  I  have  said,  at  least  I  should  possess 
The  poet's  treasure.  Silence,  and  indulge  236 

The  dreams  of  fancy,  tranquil  and  secure. 
Vain  thought !  the  dweller  in  that  still  retreat 
Dearly  obtains  the  refuge  it  affords. 
Its  elevated  site  forbids  the  wretch 
Vol.  II.  2 


14  THE  TASK. 

To  drink  sweet  waters  of  the  crystal  well ;  240 

He  dips  his  bowl  into  the  weedy  ditch, 
And,  heavy  laden,  brings  his  bev'rage  home, 
Far  fetch'd  and  little  worth ;  nor  seldom  waitS| 
Dependent  on  tlf  ^  baker's  punctual  call, 
To  hear  his  creaking  panniers  at  the  door,  245 

Angry,  and  sad,  and  his  last  crust  consum  d. 
So  farewell  envy  of  the  'peasant's  nest  ! 
If  solitude  make  scant  the  means  of  life, 
O  Society  for  me  ! — thou  seeming  sweet, 
Be  still  a  pleasing  object  in  my  view ;  250 

My  visit  still,  but  never  mine  abode. 
•  Not  distant  far,  a  length  of  colonnade 
Invites  us.     Monument  of  ancient  taste, 
Now  scorn'd,  but  worthy  of  a  better  fate. 
Our  fathers  knew  the  value  of  a  screen  255 

From  sultry  suns  :  and,  in  their  shaded  walks 
And  long  protracted  bow'rs,  enjoy 'd  at  noon 
The  gloom  and  coolness  of  declining  day. 
We  bear  our  shades  about  us  ;  self-depriv'd 
Of  other  screen,  the  thin  umbrella  spread,  260 

And  range  an  Indian  waste  without  a  tree. 
Thanks  to  Benevolus* — he  spares  me  yet 
These  chestnuts  rang'd  in  corresponding  lines ; 
And,  though  himself  so  polish 'd,  still  reprieves 
The  obsolete  prolixity  of  shade.  265 

Descending  now  (but  cautious,  lest  too  fast) 
A  sudden  steep  upon  a  rustic  bridge, 
"We  pass  a  gulf,  in  which  the  willows  dip 
Their  pendent  boughs,  stooping  as  if  to  drink. 
Hence,  ankle  deep  in  moss  and  flow'ry  thyme,        270 
We  mount  again,  and  feel  at  ev'ry  step 
Our  foot  half  sunk  in  hillocks  green  and  soft, 
Raised  by  the  mole,  the  mmer  of  the  soil. 
He,  not  unlike  the  great  ones  of  mankind, 
Disfigures  Earth :  and,  plotting  in  the  dark,  275 

*  John  Courtney  Throckmorton,  Esq.  of  Wesioa  Under- 
wood. 


If~ 


THE  SOFA.  15 

Toils  much  to  earn  a  monumental  pile 
That  may  record  the  mischief  he  has  done. 

The  summit  gain'd,  behold  the  proud  alcove 
That  crowns  it !  yet  not  all  its  pride  secures 
The  grand  retreat  from  injuries  impress'd  280 

By  rural  carvers,  who  with  knives  deface 
The  panels,  leaving  an  obscure,  rude  name, 
In  characters  uncouth,  and  spelt  amiss. 
So  strong  the  zeal  t'  immortalize  himself 
Beats  in  the  breast  of  man,  that  e'en  a  few,  28B 

Few  transient  years,  won  from  th'  abyss  abhorr'd 
Of  blank  oblivion,  seem  a  glorious  prize, 
And  even  to  a  clown.    Now  roves  the  eye  ; 
And,  posted  on  this  speculative  height, 
Exults  ii}  its  command.    The  sheepfold  here  290 

Pours  out  its  fleecy  tenants  o'er  the  glebe. 
At  first,  progressive  as  a  stream,  they  seek 
The  middle  field  ;  but,  scatter'd  by  degrees. 
Each  to  his  choice,  soon  whiten  all  the  land. 
There  from  the  sunburnt  hayfield  homeward  creeps 
The  loaded  wain  ;  while,  lighten'd  of  its  charge,    296 
The  wain  that  meets  it  passes  swiftly  by  ; 
The  boorish  driver  leaning  o'er  his  team 
Vocif  rous,  and  impatient  of  delay. 
Nor  less  attractive  is  the  woodland  scene,  300 

Diversified  with  trees  of  ev'ry  growth. 
Alike,  yet  various.     Here  the  gray  smooth  truoks 
Of  ash,  or  lime,  or  beech,  distinctly  shine. 
Within  the  twilight  of  their  distant  shades ; 
There,  lost  behind  a  rising  ground,  the  wood  305 

'     Seems  sunk,  and  shorten'd  to  its  topmost  bought. 

•  No  tree  in  all  the  grove  but  has  its  charms. 
Though  each  its  hue  peculiar ;  paler  some. 
And  of  a  wannish  gray ;  the  willow  such, 
And  poplar,  that  with  silver  lines  his  leaf,  310 

And  ash  far-stretching  his  umbrageous  arm  j 
Of  deeper  green  the  elm  ;  and  deeper  still, 
Lcird  of  the  woods,  the  long  surviving  oak 


16  THE  TASK. 

Some  glossy  leay'd,  and  shining  in  the  sun, 
The  maple  and  the  beech  of  oily  nuts  315 

Prolifick,  and  the  lime  at  dewy  eve 
Diffusing  odours  :   nor  unnoted  pass 
The  sycamore,  capricious  in  attire, 
Now  green,  now  tawny,  and,  ere  autumn  yet 
Have  chang'd  the  woods,  in  scarlet  honours  bright. 
O'er  those,  but,  far  beyond  (a  spacious  map  32J 

Of  hill  and  valley  interpos'd  between) 
The  Ouse,  dividing  the  well- water 'd  land, 
Now  glitters  in  the  sun,  and  now  retires, 
As  bashful,  yet  impatient  to  be  seen.  325 

Hence  the  declivity  is  sharp  and  short. 
And  such  the  reascent ;  between  them  weeps 
A  little  naiad  her  impov'rish'd  urn 
All  summer  long,  which  winter  fills  again. 
The  folded  gates  would  bar  my  progress  now,  330 

But  that  the  lord*  of  this  enclos'd  demesne, 
Communicative  of  the  good  he  owns. 
Admits  me  to  a  share  ;  the  guiltless  eyo 
Commits  no  wrong,  nor  wastes  what  it  enjoys. 
Refreshing  change  !  where  now  the  blazing  sun  ?   335 
By  short  transition  we  have  lost  his  glare, 
And  stepp'd  at  once  into  a  cooler  clime. 
Ye  fallen  avenues  !  once  more  I  mourn 
Your  fate  unmerited,  once  more  rejoice 
That  yet  a  remnant  of  your  race  survives.  340 

How  airy  and  how  light  the  graceful  arch. 
Yet  awful  as  the  consecrated  roof 
Re-echoing  pious  anthems  !  while  beneath 
The  chficker'd  earth  seems  restless  as  a  flood 
Brush'd  by  the  wind     So  sportive  is  the  light        345 
Shot  through  the  boughs,  it  dances  as  they  dance, 
Shadow  and  sunshine  intermingling  quick, 
And  dark'ning,  and  enlight'ning,  as  the  leaves 
Play  wanton,  ev'ry  moment,  ev'ry  spot. 
And  now,  with  nerves  new  brac'd  and  spirits  cheer'di 
*  See  the  foregoinff-  note. 


THE  SOFA.  17 

We  tread  the  wilderness,  whose  well-roU'd  walks,  351 
With  curvature  of  slow  and  easy  sweep — 
Deception  innocent — ^give  ample  space 
To  narrow  bounds.     The  grove  receives  us  next  j 
Between  the  upright  shafts  of  whose  tall  elms        355 
We  may  discern  the  thresher  at  his  task. 
Thump  after  thump  resounds  the  constant  flail, 
That  seems  to  swing  uncertain,  and  yet  falls 
Full  on  the  destin'd  ear.     Wide  flies  the  chaff, 
The  rustling  straw  sends  up  a  frequent  mist  360 

Of  atoms,  sparkling  in  the  noonday  beam.  ^ 

Come  hither,  ye  that  press  your  beds  of  down, 
And  sleep  not ;  see  him  sweating  o'er  his  bread 
Before  he  eats  it. — Tis  the  primal  curse. 
But  soften'd  into  mercy  ;  made  the  pledge  365 

Of  cheerful  days  and  nights  without  a  groan. 

By  ceaseless  action  all  that  is  subsists. 
Constant  rotation  of  th'  unwearied  wheel 
That  Nature  rides  upon,  maintains  her  health. 
Her  beauty,  her  fertility.     She  dreads  370 

An  instant's  pause,  and  lives  but  while  she  moves : 
Its  own  revolvency  upholds  the  World, 
Winds  from  all  quarters  agitate  the  air. 
And  fit  the  limpid  element  for  use, 
Else  noxious ;  oceans,  rivers,  lakes,  and  streams,    375 
All  feel  the  fresh'ning  impulse,  and  are  cleans'd 
By  restless  undulation :  e'en  the  oak 
Thrives  by  the  rude  concussion  of  the  storm  ; 
He  seems  indeed  indignant,  and  to  feel 
Th'  impression  of  the  blast  with  proud  disdain,       380 
Frowning,  as  if  in  his  unconscious  arm 
He  held  the  thunder  •  but  the  monarch  owes  • 

His  firm  stability  to  what  he  scorns, 
More  fix'd  below,  the  more  distiurb'd  above. 
Tlie  law,  by  which  all  creatures  else  are  bound,      385 
Binds  man,  the  Lord  of  all.    Himself  derives 
No  mean  advantage  from  a  kindred  cause, 
From  strenuous  toil  his  hours  of  sweetest  ease. 
2* 


18  THE  TASK. 

The  sedentary  stretch  their  lazy  length 

When  Custom  bids,  but  no  refreshment  find,  390 

For  none  they  need  •  the  languid  eye,  the  cheek 

Deserted  of  its  bloom,  the  flaccid,  shrunk, 

And  withered  muscle,  and  the  vapid  soul, 

Reproach  their  owner  with  that  love  of  rest, 

To  which  he  forfeits  e'en  the  rest  he  loves.  396 

Not  such  the  alert  and  active.     Measure  life 

By  its  true  worth,  the  comforts  it  affords, 

And  theirs  alone  seems  worthy  of  the  name. 

•  Good  health,  and  its  associate  in  the  most, 

Good  temper ;  spirits  prompt  to  undertake,  400 

And  not  soon  spent,  though  in  an  arduous  task ; 
The  pow'rs  of  fancy  and  strong  thought  are  theirs ; 
E'en  age  itself  seems  privileg'd  in  them 
With  clear  exemption  from  its  own  defects. 
A  sparkling  eye  beneath  a  wrinkled  front  405 

The  vet'ran  shows,  and,  gracing  a  gray  beard 
With  youthful  smiles,  descends  toward  the  grave 
Sprightly,  and  old  almost  without  decay. 

Like  a  coy  maiden,  Ease,  when  courted  most> 
Furthest  retires — an  idol,  at  whose  shrine  410 

Who  oft 'nest  sacrifice  are  favour'd  least. 
The  love  of  Nature,  and  the  scenes  she  draws, 
Is  nature's  dictate.     Strange  !  there  should  be  found, 
Who,  self-imprison'd  in  their  proud  saloons, 
Renounce  the  odours  of  the  open  field  415 

For  the  unscented  fictions  of  the  loom  ; 
Who,  satisfied  with  only  pencill'd  scenes, 
Prefer  to  the  performance  of  a  God 
Th'  inferiour  wonders  of  an  artist's  hand  I 

•  Lovely  indeed  the  mimick  works  of  Art ;  420 
But  Nature's  works  far  lovelier.     I  admire, 

None  more  admires  the  painter's  magick  skill ; 
Who  shows  fne  that  which  I  shall  never  see, 
Conveys  a  distant,  country  into  mine. 
And  throws  Italian  light  on  English  walls .  425 

But  imitative  strokes  can  do  no  more 


THE  SOFA.  1» 

Than  please  the  eye — sweet  Nature's  ev*ry  sense 
The  air  salubrious  of  her  lofty  hills, 
yhp  cheering  fragance  of  her  dewy  vales, 
jjind  musick  of  her  woods — no  works  of  man  430 

May  rival  these,  these  all  bespeak  a  pow*r 
Peculiar,  and  exclusively  her  own. 
»  Beneath  the  open  sky  she  spreads  the  feast , 
*Tis  free  to  all — 'tis  ev'ry  day  renew'd  ; 
Who  scorns  it  starves  deservedly  at  home. '  435 

He  does  not  scorn  it,  who,  imprison'd  long 
In  some  unwholesome  dungeon,  and  a  prey 
To  sallow  sickness,  which  the  vapours,  dank 
And  clammy,  of  his  dark  abode  have  bred, 
Escapes  at  last  to  liberty  and  Ught :  440 

His  cheek  recovers  soon  its  healthful  hue ; 
His  eye  relumines  its  extinguish'd  fires ; 
He  walks,  he  leaps,  he  runs — ^is  wing'd  with  joy, 
And  riots  in  the  sweets  of  ev'ry  breeze. 
He  does  not  sc^orn  it,  who  has  Jong  endur'd  445 

A  fever's  agonies,  and  fed  on  drugs. 
\or  yet  the  mariner,  his  blood  inflam'd 
With  acrid  salts  ;  his  very  heart  athirst, 
To  gaze  at  Nature  in  her  green  array, 
Upon  the  ship's  tall  side  he  stands,  possess'd  450 

With  visions  prompted  by  intense  desire  ; 
Fair  fields  appear  below,  such  as  he  left 
Far  distant,  such  as  he  would  die  to  find — 
He  seeks  them  headlong,  and  is  seen  no  more. 

The  spleen  is  seldom  felt  where  Flora  reigns ;    455 
The  low'ring  eye,  the  petulance,  the  frown, 
And  sullen  sadness,  that  o'ershade,  distort, 
And  mar,  the  face  of  Beauty,  when  no  cause 
For  such  immeasurable  wo  appears, 
These  Flora  banishes,  and  gives  the  fair  460 

Bweet  smiles,  and  bloom  less  transient  than  her  own.' 
It  is  the  constant  revolutioh,  stale 
And  tasteless,  of  the  same  repeated  joys, 
That  palls  and  satiates,  and  makes  languid  life 


f'"' 


■\ 


80  THE  TASK. 

A  pedler's  pack,  that  bows  the  bearer  down.  405 

Health  suffers,  and  the  spirits  ebb,  the  heart 

Recoils  from  its  own  choice — at  the  full  feast 

Is  famish'd — finds  no  musick  in  the  song, 

No  smartness  in  the  jest ;  and  wonders  why. 

Yet  thousands  still  desire  to  journey  on,  470 

Though  halt,  and  weary  of  the  path  they  tread.  • 

The  paralytick,  who  can  hold  her  cards. 

But  cannot  play  them,  borrows  a  friend's  hand, 

To  deal  and  shuffle,  to  divide  and  sort 

Her  mingled  suits  and  sequences  ;  and  sits,  475 

Spectatress  both  and  spectacle,  a  sad 

And  silent  cipher,  while  her  proxy  plays. 

Others  are  dragg'd  into  a  crowded  room 

Between  supporters ;  and,  once  seated,  sit. 

Through  downright  inability  to  rise,  480 

Till  the  stout  bearers  lift  the  corpse  again. 

These  speak  a  loud  memento.    Yet  e'en  these 

Themselves  love  life,  and  cling  to  it,  as  he 

That  overhangs  a  torrent,  to  a  twig. 

They  love  it,  and  yet  loathe  it ;  fear  to  die,  485 

Yet  scorn  the  purposes  for  which  they  live. 

Then  wherefore  not  renounce  them  ?  No — the  diead, 

The  slavish  dread  of  solitude,  that  breeds 

Reflection  and  remorse,  the  fear  of  shame, 

And  their  invet'rate  habits,  all  forbid.  490 

Whom  call  we  gay  ?  That  honour  has  been  long 
The  boast  of  mere  pretenders  to  the  name. 
The  innocent  are  gay — the  lark  is  gay, 
That  dries  his  feathers,  saturate  with  dew. 
Beneath  the  rosy  cloud,  while  yet  the  beams  495 

Of  day  spring  overshoot  his  humble  nest. 
The  peasant  too,  a  witness  of  his  song. 
Himself  a  songster,  is  as  gay  as  he. 
•  ,  But  save  me  from  the  gayety  of  those, 
Whose  headachs  nail  them  to  a  noonday  bed  j  500 

And  save  me  too  from  theirs,  whose  haggard  eyes 
Flash  desperation,  £ind  betray  their  pangs 


THE  SOFA.  21 

For  property  stripp'd  off  by  cruel  chance ; 
From  gayety,  that  fills  the  bones  with  pain, 
The  mouth  with  blasphemy,  the  heart  with  wo.      505 

The  earth  was  made  so  various,  that  the  mind 
Of  desultory  man,  studious  of  change. 
And  pleas'd  with  novelty,  might  be  indulg'd. 
Prospects,  however  lovely,  may  be  seen 
Till  half  their  beauties  fade  :  the  weary  sight         510 
Too  well  acquainted  with  their  smiles,  slides  off, 
Fastidious,  seeking  less  familiar  scenes. 
Then  snug  enclosures  in  the  shelter'd  vale, 
Where  frequent  hedges  intercept  the  eye, 
Delight  us  ;  happy  to  renounce  awhile,  515 

Not  senseless  of  its  charms,  what  still  we  love, 
That  such  short  absence  may  endear  it  more. 
Then  forests,  or  the  savage  rock,  may  please, 
That  hides  the  sea-mew  in  his  hollow  clefts 
Above  the  reach  of  man.     His  hoary  head,  520 

Conspicuous  many  a  league,  the  mariner 
Bound  homeward,  and  in  hope  already  there. 
Greets  with  three  cheers  exulting.    At  his  waist 
A  girdle  of  half-wither'd  shrubs  he  shows, 
And  at  his  feet  the  baffled  billows  die.  525 

The  common,  overgrown  with  fern,  and  rough 
With  prickly  gorse,  that,  shapeless  and  deform'd. 
And  dang'rous  to  the  touch,  has  yet  its  bloom. 
And  decks  itself  with  ornaments  of  gold. 
Yields  no  unpleasing  ramble  ;  there  the  turf  530 

Smells  fresh,  and,  rich  in  odorirrous  herbs 
And  fungous  fruits  of  earth,  regales  the  sense 
With  luxury  of  unexpected  sweets. 

There  often  wanders  one,  whom  better  days 
Saw  better  clad,  in  cloak  of  satin  trimm'd  535 

With  lace,  and  hat  with  splendid  riband  bound, 
A  serving  maid  was  she,  and  fell  in  love 
With  one  who  left  her,  went  to  sea,  and  died. 
Her  fancy  foUow'd  him  through  foaming  waves 
To  distant  shores ;  and  she  would  sit  and  weep       540 


22  THE  task:. 

At  what  a  sailor  suffers  ;  fancy  too, 

Delusive  most  where  warmest  wishes  are, 

Would  oft  anticipate  his  glad  return, 

And  dream  of  transports  she  was  not  to  know. 

She  heard  the  doleful  tidings  of  his  death —  545 

And  never  smil'd  again  1  and  now  she  roams 

The  dreary  waste  ;  there  spends  the  livelong  day, 

And  there,  unless  when  charity  forbids. 

The  livelong  night.    A  tatter'd  apron  hideS; 

"Worn  as  a  cloak,  and  hardly  hides,  a  gown  550 

More  tatter'd  still  j  and  both  but  ill  conceal 

A  bosom  heav'd  with  never-ceasing  sighs. 

She  begs  an  idle  pin  of  all  she  meets, 

And  hoards  them  in  her  sleeve  j  but  needful  food,  554 

Though  pressed  with  hunger  oft,  or  comelier  clothes, 

Though  pinch'd  with  cold,  asks  never. — Kate  is  craz'd.  * 

I  see  a  column  of  slow  rising  smoke    "" 
O'ertop  the  lofty  wood,  that  skirts  the  wild. 
A  vagabond  and  useless  tribe  there  eat 
Their  miserable  meal.    A  kettle,  slung  560 

Between  two  poles  upon  a  stick  transverse, 
Receives  the  morsel — flesh  obscene  of  dog. 
Or  vermin,  or  at  best  of  cock  purloin'd 
From  his  accustom'd  perch.    Hard  faring  race !  • 
They  pick  their  fuel  out  of  ev'ry  hedge,  565 

Which,  kindled  with  dry  leaves,  just  saves  unqucnch'd 
The  spark  of  life.    The  sportive  wind  blows  wide 
Their  flutt'ring  rags,  and  shows  a  tawny  skin. 
The  vellum  of  the  pedigree  they  claim. 
Great  skill  have  they  in  palmistry,  and  more  "N     570 
To  conjure  clean  away  the  gold  they  touch, 
Conveying  worthless  dross  into  its  place ; 
Loud  when  they  beg,  dumb  only  when  they  sit^ai 
Strange  !  that  a  creature  rational,  and  cast 
In  human  mould,  should  brutalize  by  choice  575 

His  nature  j  and,  though  capable  of  ar^s, 
•  By  which  the  world  might  profit,  and  himself 
Self-banish'd  from  society,  prefer         / 


THE  SOFA.  ^  23 

Such  squalid  sloth  to  honourable  toil ! 
Yet  even  these,  though  feigning  sickness  oft  580 

They  swathe  the  forehead,  drag  the  limping  limb, 
And  vex  their  flesh  with  artificial  sores, 
Can  change  their  whine  into  a  mirthful  note, 
When  safe  occasion  offers ;  and  with  dancej 
And  musick  of  the  bladder  and  the  bag,  585 

Beguile  their  woes,  and  make  the  woods  resound. 
Such  health  and  gayety  of  heart  enjoy 
The  houseless  rovers  of  the  sylvan  world ; 
And,  breathing  wholesome  air,  and  wand'ring  much, 
Need  other  physick  none  to  heal  th'  effects  590 

Of  loathsome  diet,  penury,  and  cold. 

Blest  he,  though  undistinguish'd  from  the  crowd 
By  wealth  or  dignity,  who  dwells  secure, 
Where  man  by  nature  fierce,  has  laid  aside 
His  fierceness,  having  learnt,  though  slow  to  learn. 
The  manners  and  the  arts  of  civil  life.  590 

His  wants  indeed  are  many ;  but  supply 
Is  obvious,  plac'd  within  the  easy  reach 
Of  temp*rate  wishes  and  industrious  hands.  "^ 
Here  virtue  thrives  as  in  her  proper  soil ;  600 

Not  rude  and  surly,  and  beset  with  thorns. 
And  terrible  to  sight,  as  when  she  springs, 
(If  e'er  she  spring  spontaneous,)  in  remote 
And  barb 'reus  climes,  where  violence  prevails. 
And  strength  is  lord  of  all ;  but  gentle,  kind,  606 

By  culture  tam'd,  by  liberty  refresh'd,       ^ 
And  all  her  fruits  by  radiant  truth  matur'd. 
War  and  the  chase  engross  the  savage  whole ; 
War  follow'd  for  revenge  or  to  supplant 
The  envied  tenants  of  some  happier  spot :  610 

The  chase  for  sustenance,  precarious  trust  • 
His  hard  condition  with  severe  constraint 
Binds  all  his  faculties,  forbids  all  growth 
Of  wisdom,  proves  a  school,  in  which  he  learns 
Sly  circumvention,  unrelenting  hate,  6lb 

Mean  self-attachment,  and  scarce  aught  beside. 


V 


24  THE  TASK. 

Thus  fare  the  shiv'ring  natives  of  the  north, 

And  thus  the  rangers  of  the  western  world, 

Where  it  advances  far  into  the  deep, 

Tow'rds  the  antarctick.    E'en  the  favour'd  isles     62Q 

So  lately  found,  although  the  constant  sun 

Cheer  all  their  seasons  with  a  grateful  smile, 

Can  boast  but  little  virtue  ;  and  inert 

Through  plenty,  lose  in  morals  what  they  gain 

In  manners — victims  of  luxurious  ease.  G25 

These  therefore  I  can  pity,  plac'd  remote 

From  all  that  science  traces,  art  invents, 

Or  inspiration  teaches  ;  and  enclos'd 

In  boundless  oceans  never  to  be  pass'd 

By  navigators  uninformed  as  they,  630 

Or  plough'd  perhaps  by  British  bark  again . 

But  far  beyond  the  rest,  and  with  most  cause, 

Thee,  gentle  savage  !*  whom  no  love  of  thee 

Or  thine,  but  curiosity  perhaps. 

Or  else  vain  glory,  prompted  us  to  draw  635 

Forth  from  thy  native  bow'rs,  to  show  thee  here 

With  what  superiour  skill  we  can  abuse 

The  gifts  of  Providence,  and  squander  life. 

The  dream  is  past ;  and  thou  hast  found  again 

Thy  cocoas  and  bananas,  palms  and  yams,  64C 

And  homestall  thatch'd  with  leaves.    But  hast  thou 

found 
Their  former  charms  ?  And,  having  seen  our  state. 
Our  palaces,  our  ladies,  and  our  pomp 
Of  equipage,  our  gardens,  and  our  sports, 
And  heard  our  musick ;  are  thy  simple  friends^       644 
Thy  simple  fare,  and  all  thy  plain  delights, 
As  dear  to  thee  as  once  ?  And  have  thy  joys 
Lost  nothing  by  comparison  with  ours  ? 
Rude  as  thou  art,  (for  we  return'd  thee  rudo 
And  ignorant,  except  of  outward  show,)  650 

I  cannot  think  thee  yet  so  dull  of  heart 
And  spiritless,  as  never  to  regret 
•  Omai. 


THE  SOFA.  85 

Sweets  tadted  here,  and  left  as  soon  as  known. 
Methinks  I  see  thee  straying  on  the  beach, 
And  asking  of  the  surge,  that  bathes  thy  foot,        655 
If  ever  it  has  wash'd  our  distant  shore. 
I  see  thee  weep,  and  thine  are  honest  tears, 
A  patriot's  for  his  country  :  thou  art  sad 
At  thought  of  her  forlorn  and  abject  state, 
From  which  no  pow'r  of  thine  can  raise  her  up.      660 
Thus  fancy  paints  thee,  and,  though  apt  to  err, 
Perhaps  errs  little,  when  she  paints  thee  thus. 
She  tells  me  too,  that  duly  ev*ry  mom 
Thou  climb'st  the  mountain  top,  with  eager  eye 
Exploring  far  and  wide  the  wat'ry  waste  665 

For  sight  of  ship  from  England.     Ev'ry  speck 
Seen  in  the  dim  horizon  turns  thee  pale 
With  conflict  of  contending  hopes  and  fears. 
But  comes  at  last  the  dull  and  dusky  eve, 
And  sends  thee  to  thy  cabin,  well  prepared  670 

To  dream  all  night  of  what  the  day  denied. 
Alas  !  expect  it  not.    We  found  no  bait 
To  tempt  us  in  thy  country.    Doing  good. 
Disinterested  good,  is  not  our  trade. 
We  travel  far,  'tis  true,  but  not  for  nought ;  675 

And  must  be  brib'd  to  compass  Earth  again 
By  other  hopes  and  richer  fruits  than  yours. 
But  though  true  worth  and  virtue  in  the  mild 
I  And  genial  soil  of  cultivated  life 
Thrive  most,  and  may  perhaps  thrive  only  there,    680 
Yet  not  in  cities  oft :  in  proud,  and  gay. 
And  gain-devoted  cities.     Thither  flow. 
As  to  a  common  and  most  nq^some  sewer. 
The  dregs  and  feculence  of  every  land. 
In  cities,  foul  example  on  most  minds  685 

Begets  its  likeness;    Rank  abundance  breedSj/^ 
In  gross  and  pamper'd  cities,  sloth,  and  lust. 
And  wantonness,  and  gluttonous  excess. 
In  cities,  vice  is  hidden  with  most  ease, 
Or  seen  with  least  reproach  ;  and  virtue,  taught    690 
Vol.  II.  3 


26  THE  TASK. 

By  frequent  lapse,  can  hope  no  triumph  there 
Beyond  th'  achievement  of  successful  flight. 
I  do  confess  them  nurseries  of  the  arts, 
In  which  they  flourish  most ;  where  in  the  beams 
Of  warm  encouragement,  and  m  the  eye  695 

Of  publick  note,  they  reach  their  perfect  size. 
Such  London  is,  by  taste  and  wealth  proclaimed 
The  fairest  capital  of  all  the  world, 
By  riot  and  incontinence  the  worst. 
There  touch'd  by  Reynolds,  a  dull  blank  becomes  700 
A  lucid  mirror,  in  which  Nature  sees 
All  her  reflected  features.     Bacon  there 
Gives  more  than  female  beauty  to  a  stone, 
And  Chatham's  eloquence  to  marble  lips. 
Nor  does  the  chisel  occupy  alone  705 

The  pow'rs  of  sculpture,  but  the  style  as  much ; 
Each  province  of  her  art  her  equal  care. 
With  nice  incision  of  her  guided  steel 
She  ploughs  a  brazen  field,  and  clothes  a  soil 
So  sterile  with  what  charms  soe'er  she  will,  710 

The  richest  scenery  and  the  loveliest  forms. 
Where  finds  Philosophy  her  eagle  eye, 
With  which  she  gazes  at  yon  burning  disk 
Undazzled,  and  detects  and  counts  his  spots  ? 
In  London.     Where  her  implements  exact,  715 

With  which  she  calculates,  computes,  and  scans, 
All  distance,  motion,  magnitude,  and  now 
Measures  an  atom,  and  now  girds  a  world  ? 
'  In  London.     Where  has  commerce  such  a  mart. 
So  rich,  so  thronged,  so  drain'd,  and  so  supplied,     720 
As  London — opulent,  enl^rg'd,  and  still 
Increasing  London  •'  Babylon  of  old 
Not  more  the  glory  of  the  Earth,  than  she, 
A  more  accomplish 'd  world's  chief  glory  now. 

She  has  her  praise.     Now  mark  a  spot  or  two,    725 
That  so  much  beauty  would  do  well  to  purge  ; 
And  show  this  queen  of  cities,  that  so  fair, 
May  yet  be  foul ;  so  witty,  yet  not  wise 


THE  SOFA.  27 

*   It  is  not  seemly,  nor  df  good  report, 
Tliat  slie  is  slack  in  discipline  ;  more  prompt  730 

T'  avenge  than  to  prevent  the  breach  of  law : 
That  she  is  rigid  in  denouncing  death 
On  petty  robbers,  and  indulges  life, 
And  liberty,  and  ofttimos  honour  too, 
To  peculators  of  the  public  gold :  735 

That  thieves  at  home  must  hang  ;  but  ho  that  ptits 
Into  his  overgorg'd  and  bloated  purse 
The  wealth  of  Indian  provinces,  escapes. 
Nor  is  it  well,  nor  can  it  come  to  good. 
That,  through  profane  and  infidel  contempt  740 

Of  holy  writ,  she  has  presum'd  t'  annul 
And  abrogate,  as  roundly  as  she  may, 
The  total  ordinance  and  will  of  God ; 
Advancing  Fashion  to  the  post  of  Truth, 
And  centring  all  authority  in  modes  745 

And  customs  of  her  own,  till  sabbath  rites 
Have  dwindled  into  unrespected  forms. 
And  knees  and  hassocks  are  well-nigR  divorc'd. 
X  ♦    God  made  the_c(}n"»^yj  **Tifl:;i^^2irn^p  thf*  frrwn 
What  wonder  then  that  health  and  virtue,  gifts       7M) 
That  can  alone  make  sweet  the  bitter  draught 
That  life  holds  out  to  all,  should  most  abound 
And  least  be  threaten'd  in  the  fields  and  groves  ? 
Possess  ye,  therefore,  ye  who,  borne  about 
In  chariots  and  sedans,  know  no  fatigue  755 

But^that^of  idlen»flg.  and  taste  no  scenes 
But  such  as  art  contrives,  possess  ye  still 
Your  element,  there  only  can  ye  shine  ; 
There  only  minds  like  yours  can  do  no  harm. 
Our  groves  were  planted  to  console  at  noon  760 

The  pensive  wand'rer  in  their  shades.     At  eve 
The  moon-beam,  sliding  softly  in  between 
The  sleeping  leaves,  is  all  the  light  they  wish, 
Birds  warbling  all  the  musick.     We  can  spare 
The  splendour  of  your  lamps ;  they  but  eclipse        765 
Our  softer  satellite.     Your  songs  confound 


»  THE  TASK. 

Our  more  harmonious  notes :  the  thrush  departs 
Scar'd,  and  tli*  offended  nightmgale  is  mute. 
There  is  a  publick  mischief  in  your  mirth ; 
It  plagues  your  country.    Folly  such  as  yours,       770 
Grac'd  with  a  sword,  and  worthier  of  a  fan, 
Has  made,  what  enemies  could  ne'er  have  donOi 
Our  arch  of  empire,  steadfast  but  for  you, 
A  mutilated  structure  soon  to  fall. 


THE  TASK. 


THE  TIME-PIECE. 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  SECOND  BOOK.  ^ 

Roflections  suggested  by  the  conclusion  of  the  former  book — Peace 
among  the  nations  recommended  on  the  ground  of  their  common 
fellowship  in  sorrow — Prodigies  enumerated — Sicilian  earth- 
quakes— Man  rendered  obnoxious  to  these  calamities  by  sin- 
God  the  agent  in  them — The  philosophy  that  stops  at  secondary 
causes  reproved — Our  own  late  miscarriages  accounted  for— 
Satirical  notice  taken  of  our  trips  to  Fontainbleau — But  the 
pulpit,  not  satire,  the  proper  engine  of  reformation — The  Reve- 
rend Advertiser  of  engraved  sermons — Petit-maitre  parson— The 
good  preacher— »Picture  of  a  theatrical  clerical  coxcomb — Story- 
tellers and  jesters  in  the  pulpit  reproved — Apostrophe  to  popular 
applause — Retailers  of  ancient  philosophy  expostulated  with — 
Sum  of  the  whole  matter — Effects  of  sacerdotal  mismanagement 
on  the  laity — Their  folly  and  extravagance — The  mischiefs  of 
profusion — Profusion  itself,  with  all  its  consequent  evils,  ascrilted, 
as  to  its  principal  cause,  to  the  want  of  discipline  in  the  univer- 
sities. 


O  FOR  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 
Where  rumour  of  oppression  and  deceit, 
Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war, 
Might  never  reach  me  more  !  My  ear  is  pain'd,  5 

My  soul  is  sick  with  ev'ry  day's  report 
Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  earth  is  fill'd. 
There  is  no.fleshJn_man>  obdurff^"  h^art  ♦     ^ 
ItHoes  not  feel  for  man ;.  the  natural  bond 
uT  brotherhood  is  sever'd,  as  the  flax,  10 

3* 


iXTh 


30  THE  TASK. 

That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 

He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 

Not  colour'd  like  his  own ;  and  having  pow'r 

T'  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 

Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  a  lawful  prey.  1^^ 

Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 

Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interpoa'd 

Make  enemies  of  nations,  who  had  else 

Like  kindred  drops  been  mingled  into  one. 

Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys  ;  20 

And  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplor'd, 

As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot, 

Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat    - 

With  stripes,  that  Mercy  with  a  bleeding  heart, 

eeps  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast.  25 

Then  what  is  man  ?  And  what  man,  seeing  this, 
And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush. 
And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man  ? 
I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground, 
To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep,  30 

And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earn'd 
No :  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 
Just  estimation  priz'd  above  all  price, 
X  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave,  35 

And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 
We  have  no  slaves  at  home. — Then  why  abroad  ? 
And  they  themselves,  once  ferried  o'er  the  wave 
That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loos'd. 
Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England  ;  if  their  lungs     40 
Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free  ; 
They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles  fall. 
That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 
And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it,  then. 
And  let  it  circulate  through  ev'ry  vein  45 

of  all  your  empire :  that,  where  Britain's  pow'r 
Is  felt,  mankmd  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 

Sure  there  is  need  of  social  intercourse, 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  o  . 

Benevolence,  and  peace,  and  mutual  aid, 
Between  the  nations,  in  a  world  that  seems  50 

To  toll  the  death-bell  of  its  own  uecease, 
And  by  the  voice  of  all  its  elements 
To  preach  the  gen'ral  doom.*    When  were  the  winds 
Let  slip  with  such  a  warrant  to  destroy  .'' 
When  did  the  waves  so  haughtily  o'erleap  *      55 

Their  ancient  barriers,  deluging  the  dry? 
Fires  from  beneath,  and  meteorst  from  above, 
Portentous,  unexampled,  unexplained, 
Have  kindled  beacons  in  the  skies ;  and  th*  old 
And  crazy  Earth  has  had  her  shaking  fits  60 

More  frequent,  and  foregone  her  usual  rest. 
Is  it  a  time  to  wrangle,  when  the  props 
And  pillars  of  our  planet  seem  to  fail, 
And  Nature  with  a  dim  and  sickly  eyej 
To  wait  the  close  of  all  .'*  But  grant  her  end  65 

More  distant,  and  that  prophecy  demands 
A  longer  respite,  unaccomplish'd  yet  > 
^till  they  are  frowning  signals,  and  bespeak 
Displeasure  in  his  breast  who  smites  the  Earth 
Or  heals  it,  makes  it  languish  or  rejoice.  ?0 

And  'tis  but  seemly,  that,  where  all  deserve 
And  stand  expos'd  by  common  peccancy 
To  what  no  few  have  felt,  there  should  be  peace, 
And  brethren  in  calamity  should  love. 

Alas  for  Sicily !  rude  fragments  now  ?5 

Lie  scatter'd,  where  the  shapely  columns  stood. 
Her  palaces  are  dust.    In  all  her  streets 
The  voice  of  singing  and  the  sprightly  chord 
Are  silent.    Revelry,  and  dance,  and  show, 
Suffer  a  syncope  and  solemn  pause  ;  80 

While  God  performs  upon  the  trembling  stage 
Of  his  own  works  his  dreadful  part  alone. 
How  does  the  earth  receive  him  .''  with  what  signs 

*  Alluding  to  the  calamities  in  Jamaica, 
t  August,  18;  1783. 

t  Alluding  to  the  fog  that  covered  both  Europe  and  Asia 
during  the  whole  summer  of  1783. 


32  THE  TASK. 

Of  gratulation  and  delight  her  king  ? 

Pours  she  not  all  her  choicest  fruits  abroad,  85 

Her  sweetest  flow'rs,  her  aromatick  gums, 

Disclosing  Paradise  where'er  he  treads  ? 

She  quakes  at  his  approach.     Her  hollow  womb,   \-^ 

Conceiving  thunders,  through  a  thousand  deeps 

And  fiery  caverns  roars  beneath  his  foot.  90 

The  hills  move  lightly,  and  the  mountains  smoke, 

For  he  has  touch'd  them.    From  th'  extremest  point 

or  elevation  down  into  the  abyss 

His  wrath  is  busy,  and  his  frown  is  felt. 

The  rocks  fall  headlong,  and  the  valleys  rise,  95 

The  rivers  die  into  offensive  pools, 

And,  charg'd  with  putrid  verdure,  breathe  a  gross 

And  mortal  nuisance  into  all  the  air. 

What  solid  was,  by  transformation  strange. 

Grows  fluid  ;  and  the  fix'd  and  rooted  earth,  100 

Tormented  into  billows,  heaves  and  swells, 

Or  with  vortiginpus  and  hideous  whirl 

Sucks  down  its  prey  insatiable.     Immense 

The  tumult  and  the  overthrow,  the  pangs 

And  agonies  of  human  and  of  brute  105 

Multitudes,  fugitive  on  ev'ry  side, 

And  fugitive  in  vain.     The  sylvan  scene 

Migrates  uplifted  :  and,  with  all  its  soil 

Alighting  in  far  distant  fields,  finds  out 

A  new  possessor,  and  survives  the  change.  110 

Ocean  lias  caught  the  frenzy,  and,  upwrought 

To  an  enormous  and  o'erbearing  height. 

Not  by  a  mighty  wind,  but  by  that  voice 

Whicli  winds  and  waves  obey,  invades  the  shore' J'*  ;^ 

Resistless.     Never  such  a  sudden  flood,  \/  iiS 

Upridg'd  so  high,  and  sent  on  such  a  charge. 

Posse ss'd  an  inland  scene.     Where  now  the  throng 

That  press'd  the  beach,  and,  hasty  to  depart, 

Look'd  to  the  sea  for  safety  ?  They  are  gone, 

Gone  with  the  refluent  wave  into  the  deep —  12f 

A.  prince  with  half  his  people  •  Ancient  tow'rs. 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  33 

And  roofs  embattled  high,  the  gloomy  scenes 

Where  beauty  oft  and  letter'd  worth  consume 

Life  in  the  unproductive  shades  of  death, 

Fall  prone  :  the  pale  inhabitants  come  forth,  125 

And,  happy  in  their  unforeseen  release 

From  all  the  rigours  of  restraint,  enjoy 

The  terrours  of  the  day  that  sets  them  free. 

who,  then,  that  has  thee,  would  not  hold  thee  fast 

Freedom  !  whom  they  that  lose  thee  so  regret,        130 

That  e'en  a  judgment,  making  way  for  thee. 

Seems  in  their  eyes  a  mercy  for  thy  sake  ? 

Such  evil  Sin  hath  wrought ;  and  such  a  flame 

Kindled  in  Heav'n,  that  it  burns  down  to  Earth, 

And  in  the  furious  inquest  that  it  makes  135 

On  God's  behalf,  lays  waste  his  fairest  works. 

The  very  elements,  though  each  be  meant 

The  minister  of  man,  to  serve  his  wants. 

Conspire  against  him.    With  his  breath  he  draws 

A  plague  into  his  blood  ;  and  cannot  use  140 

Life's  necessary  means,  but  he  must  die. 

Storms  rise  t'  o'erwhelm  him  ;  or  if  stormy  winds 

Rise  not,  the  waters  of  the  deep  shall  rise. 

And,  needing  none  assistance  of  the  storm,      ' 

Shall  roll  themselves  ashore,  and  reach  him  tfiere.  l45 

The  earth  shall  shake  him  out  of  all  his  holds. 

Or  make  his  house  his  grave  :  nor  so  content, 

Shall  counterfeit  the  motions  of  the  flood. 

And  drown  him  in  her  dry  and  dusty  gulfs. 

What  then  ! — were  they  the  wicked  above  all,        150 

And  we  the  righteous,  whose  fast-anchor'd  isle 

Mov'd  not,  while  theirs  was  rock'd,  like  a  light  skifi^ 

The  sport  of  every  wave  ?  No }  none  are  clear. 

And  none  than  we  more  guilty.     But,  where  all 

Stand  chargeable  with  guilt,  and  to  the  shafts         155 

Of  w^ath  obnoxious,  God  may  choose  his  mark : 

May  punish,  if  he  please,  the  less,  to  warn 

The  more  malignant.    If  he  spar*d  hot  them, 


34  THE  TASK.^. 

Tremble  and  be  amaz'd  at  thine  escape, 

Far  guiltier  England,  lest  he  spare  not  thee  ;  160 

Happy  the  man,  who  sees  a  God  employ'd 
In  all  the  good  and  ill  that  checker  life  ! 
Resolving  all  events,  with  their  effects 
And  manifold  results,  into  the  will 
And  arbitration  wise  of  the  Supreme.  166 

Did  not  his  eye  rule  all  things,  and  intend 
The  least  of  our  concerns  ;  (since  from  the  least 
The  greatest  oft  originate  y)  could  chance 
Find  place  in  his  dominion,  or  dispose 
One  lawless  particle  to  thwart  his  plan ;  170 

Then  God  might  be  surpris'd,  and  unforeseen 
Contingence  might  alarm  him,  and  disturb 
The  smooth  and  equal  course  of  his  affairs. 
This  truth  Philosophy,  though  eagle-ey'd 
In  nature's  tendencies,  oft  overlooks  ;  175 

And,  having  found  his  instrument,  forgets, 
Or  disregards,  or,  more  presumptuous  still, 
Denies  the  power  that  wields  it.     God  proclaims 
His  hot  displeasure  against  foolish  men, 
That  live  an  atheist  life  ;  involves  the  Heavens      180 
In  tempests ;  quits  his  grasp  upon  the  winds, 
And  gives  them  all  their  fury  ;  bids  a  plague 
Kindle  a  fiery  bile  upon  the  skin. 
And  putrefy  the  breath  of  blooming  Health. 
He  calls  for  Famine,  and  the  meagre  fiend  185 

Blows  mildew  from  between  his  shrivell'd  lips, 
And  taints  the  golden  ear.     He  springs  his  mines, 
And  desolates  a  nation  at  a  blast. 
Forth  steps  the  spruce  Philosopher,  and  tells 
Of  homogeneal  and  discordant  springs,  190 

And  principles  j  of  causes  how  they  work 
By  necessary  laws  their  sure  effects 
Of  action  and  reaction  :  he  has  found 
The  source  of  the  disease  that  nature  feels, 
A.nd  bids  the  world  take  heart  and  banish  fear.        195 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  35 

Thou  fool  ?  will  thy  discov'ry  of  the  cause 
Suspend  th*  effect,  or  heal  it  ?  Has  not  God 
Still  wrought  by  means  since  first  he  made  the  world 
And  did  he  not  of  old  employ  his  means 
To  drown  it  ?  What  is  his  creation  less,  200 

Than  a  capacious  reservoir  of  means, 
Form'd  for  his  use,  and  ready  at  his  will  ? 
Go,  dress  thine  eyes  with  eye -salve  ;  ask  of  Him, 
Or  ask  of  whomsoever  he  has  taught ; 
And  learn,  though  late,  the  genuine  cause  of  all.    205 

England,  with  all  thy  faults,  I  love  thee  still — 
My  country  !  and,  while  yet  a  nook  is  lefl, 
Where  English  minds  and  manners  may  be  found, 
Shall  be  constrain'd  to  love  thee.    Though  thy  clime 
Be  fickle,  and  thy  year  most  part  deforra'd  210 

With  dripping  rains,  or  withered  by  a  frost, 
I  would  not  yet  exchange  thy  sullen  skies, 
And  fields  without  a  flow'r,  for  warmer  France 
With  all  her  vines  :  nor  for  Ausonia's  groves 
Of  golden  fruitage,  and  her  myrtlo  bow'rs.  215 

To  sliake  thy  senate,  and  from  heights  sublime 
Of  patriot  eloquence  to  flash  down  fire 
Upon  thy  foes,  was  never  meant  my  task : 
But  I  can  feel  thy  fortunes,  and  partake 
Thy  joys  and  sorrows,  with  as  true  a  heart  220 

As  any  thund'rer  there.    And  I  can  feel 
Tliy  follies  too ;  and  with  a  just  disdain 
Frown  at  effeminates,  whose  very  looks 
Reflect  dishonour  on  the  land  I  love. 
How  in  the  name  of  soldiership  and  sense,  225 

Should  England  prosper,  when  such  things,  as  smooth 
And  tender  as  a  girl,  all  essenc'd  o'er 
With  odours,  and  as  profligate  as  sweet ; 
Who  sell  their  laurel  for  a  myrtle  wreath, 
And  love  when  they  should  fight  :  when  such  as  these 
Presume  to  lay  their  hand  upon  the  ark  231 

Of  her  magnificent  and  awful  cause  ?  ^ 

Time  was  when  it  was  praise  and  boast  enough 


3G  THE  TASK. 

In  every  clime,  and  travel  where  we  might, 

That  wc  were  born  her  children.     Praise  en:iugh  235 

To  fill  th'  ambition  of  a  private  man 

That  Cliatham's  language  was  liis  mother-tor  gue, 

And  Wolfe's  great  name  compatriot  with  iiis  own. 

Farewell  those  honours,  and  farewell  with  them 

The  hope  of  such  hereafter  !  They  have  fall'n         240 

Each  in  his  field  of  glory  ;  one  in  arms, 

And  one  ni  council — Wolfe  upon  the  lap 

Of  smiling  Victory  that  moment  won, 

And  Chatham  heart-sick  of  his  country's  shame  ! 

They  made  us  many  soldiers.     Chatham,  still         245 

Consulting  England's  happiness  at  home, 

Secur'd  it  by  an  unforgiving  frown, 

If  any  wrong'd  her.     Wolfe,  where'er  he  fought, 

Put  so  much  of  his  heart  into  his  act, 

That  his  example  had  a  magnet's  force,  250 

And  all  were  swift  to  follow  whom  all  lov'd. 

Those  suns  are  set.     O  rise  some  other  such? 

Or  all  that  we  have  left  is  empty  talk 

Of  old  achievements  and  despair  of  new. 

Now  hoist  the  sail,  and  let  the  streamers  float     255 
Upon  the  wanton  breezes.     Strew  the  deck 
With  lavender,  and  sprinkle  liquid  sweets, 
That  no  rude  savour  maritime  invade 
The  nose  of  nice  nobility  !  Breathe  soft, 
Ye  clarionets  ;  and  softer  still,  ye  flutes ;  260 

That  winds  and  waters,  lull'd  by  magick  sounds, 
May  bear  us  smoothly  to  the  Gallic  shore. 
True,  we  have  lost  an  empire — let  it  pass. 
True,  we  may  thank  the  perfidy  of  France, 
That  pick'd  the  jewel  out  of  England's  crown,       26G 
With  all  the  cunning  of  an  envious  shrew.  \ 

And  let  that  pass — 'twas  but  a  trick  of  state — 
A  hjjave  man  knows  no  malice,  but  at  once 
j^^)i^ets  in  peace  the  injuries  of  war. 
And  gives  his  direst  foe  a  friend's  embrace.  270 

Aiid  sham'd  as  we  have  been,  to  th'  very  beard 


THE  TIMF-^TECE.  S7 

Bray  d  and  defied,  and  in  oar  own  sea  prov'd 
Too  weak  for  those  decisive  blows  that  once 
Ensur'd  us  mast'ry  there,  we  yet  retain 
Some  small  pre-eminence  ;  we  justly  boast  275 

At  least  superiour  jockeyship,  and  claim 
The  honours  of  the  turf  as  all  our  own ! 
Go,  then,  well  worthy  of  the  praise  ye  seek, 
And  show  the  shame  ve  might  conceal  at  homo, 
In  foreign  eyes  ' — ^be  grooms  and  win  the  plate,      280 
Where  once  your  nobler  fathers  won  a  crown ' — 
'Tis  gen'rous  to  communicate  your  skill 
To  those  that  need  it.     Folly  is  soon  learn'd :    ^^ ^ < ".' 
And  under  such  preceptors  who  can  fail  ?  v^ -Jr^J^N 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  poetick  pains,  885 

Which  only  poets  know.     The  ^ifts  and  turns, 
Th'  expedients  and  inventions  multiform, 
To  which  the  mind  resorts,  in  chase  of  terms. 
Though  apt,  yet  coy,  and  difficult  to  win — 
T'  arrest  the  fleeting  images,  that  fill  200 

The  mirror  of  the  mind,  and  hold  them  fast, 
And  force  them  sit,  till  he  has  pencil'd  off 
A  faithful  likeness  of  the  forms  he  views ; 
Then  to  dispose  his  copies  with  such  art, 
That  each  may  find  its  most  propitious  light,  29b 

And  shine  by  situation,  hardly  less 
Than  by  the  labour  and  the  skill  it  cost ; 
Are  occupations  of  the  poet's  mind 
So  pleasing,  and  that  steal  away  the  thought. 
With  such  address  from  themes  of  sad  import,        300 
That,  lost  in  his  own  musings,  happy  man ! 
He  feels  the  anxieties  of  life  denied 
Their  wonted  entertainment ;  all  retire. 
Such  joys  has  he  that  sings.     But  ah  !  not  such. 
Or  seldom  such,  the  hearers  of  his  song.  305 

Fastidious,  or  else  listless,  or  perhaps 
Aware  of  nothing  arduous  in  a  task 
They  never  undertook,  they  little  note 
His  dangers  or  escapes,  and  haply  find 

Vol.  11  4 


'SB  THE  TASK. 

Their  least  amusement  where  he  found  the  most     310 

But  is  amusement  all  ?  Studious  of  song, 

And  yi  t  ambitious  not  to  sing  in  vain, 

I  would  not  trifle  merely,  though  the  world 

Be  loudest  in  their  praise  who  do  no  more. 

Yet  what  can  satire,  whether  grave  or  gay  ?  315 

It  may  correct  a  foible,  may  chastise 

The  freaks  of  fashion,  regulate  the  dress. 

Retrench  a  sword-blade,  or  displace  a  patch ; 

But  where  are  its  sublimer  trophies  found  ? 

What  vice  has  it  subdued  ?  whose  heart  reclaim'd  320 

By  rigour,  or  whom  laugh'd  into  reform? 

Alas  r  Leviathan  is  not  so  tam'd : 

Laugh'd  at,  ho  laughs  again  ;  and  stricken  hard, 

Turns  to  the  stroke  his  adamantine  scales, 

That  fear  no  discipline  of  human  hands.  325 

The  pulpit,  therefore — (and  I  name  it  fiU'd 
With  solemn  awe,  that  bids  me  well  beware 
With  what  intent  I  touch  that  holy  thing) — 
The  pulpit — (when  the  sat'rist  has  at  last, 
Strutting  and  vap'ring  in  an  empty  school,  330 

Spent  all  his  force,  and  made  no  proselyte) — 
I  say  the  pulpit  (in  the  sober  use 
Of  its  legitimate  peculiar  pow'rs) 
Must  stand  acknowledg'd,  While  the  world  shall  stand. 
The  most  important  and  effectual  guard,  335 

Support,  and  ornament,  of  Virtue's  cause. 
There  stands  the  messenger  of  truth  j  there  stands 
The  legate  of  the  skies ! — flis  theme  divine, 
His  office  sacred,  his  credentials  clear. 
By  him  the  violated  law  speaks  out  340 

Its  thunders  :  and  by  him,  in  strains  as  sweet 
As  angels  use,  the  Gospel  whispers  peace. 
He  'stablishes  the  strong,  restores  the  weak, 
Reclaims  the  wand'rer,  binds  the  broken  heart, 
And,  arm'd  himself  in  panoply  complete  345 

Of  hcav'nly  temper,  furnishes  with  arms 
Bright  as  his  own,  and  trains,  by  every  rule 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  39 

Of  holy  discipline,  to  glorious  war 
The  sacramental  host  oi  God's  elect :  349 

Are  all  such  teachers  ? — would  to  Heav'n  all  were  ! 
Bat  hark — the  doctor's  voice  ! — fast  wedg'd  between 
Two  empiricks  he  stands,  and  with  swoln  cheeks 
Inspires  the  news,  his  trumpet.     Keener  far 
Than  all  invective  is  his  bold  harangue, 
While  through  that  publick  organ  of  report  355 

He  hails  the  clergy  ;  and,  defying  shame, 
Announces  to  the  world  his  own  and  theirs  ! 
He  teaches  those  to  read  whom  schools  dismissed, 
And  colleges,  untaught :  sells  accent,  tone, 
And  emphasis  in  score,  and  gives  to  pray'r  360 

Th'  adagio  and  andante  it  demands. 
He  grinds  divinity  of  other  days 
Down  into  modern  use  ;  transforms  old  prmi 
To  zigzag  manuscript,  and  cheats  the  eyes 
Of  gall'ry  critics  by  a  thousand  arts.  365 

Are  thwe  who  purchase  of  the  doctor's  ware  ? 
O,  name  it  not  in  GatH  ! — it  cannot  be, 
That  grave  and  learned  clerks  should  need  such  aid. 
He  doubtless  is  in  sport,  and  does  but  droll, 
Assuming  thus  a  rank  unknown  before —  370 

Grand  caterer  and  dry-nurse  of  the  church  I 
I  venerate  the  man,  whose  heart  is  warm, 
Whose  hands  are  pure,  whose  doctrine  and  whose  life, 
Coincident,  exhibit  lucid  proof 

That  he  is  honest  in  the  sacred  cause.  375 

To  such  I  render  more  than  mere  respect, 
Whose  actions  say  that  they  respect  themselves. 
But  loose  in  morals  and  in  manners  vain, 
in  conversation  frivolous,  in  dress 
Extreme  at  once  rapacious  and  profuse  ;  380 

Frequent  in  park  with  lady  at  his  side, 
Ambling  and  prattling  scandal  as  he  goes ; 
But  rare  at  home,  and  never  at  his  books, 
Or  with  his  pen,  save  when  he  scrawls  a  card ; 
Constant  at  routs,  familiar  with  a  round  385 


40  THE  TASK 

Of  ladyships,  a  stranger  to  the  poor ; 

Ambitious  of  preferment  for  its  gold. 

And  well  prcpar'd,  by  ignorance  and  sloth, 

By  infidelity  and  love  of  world, 

To  make  God's  work  a  sinecure  ;  a  slave  300 

To  his  own  pleasures  and  his  patron's  pride  j 

From  such  apostles,  O  ye  mitred  heads. 

Preserve  the  church  !  and  lay  not  careless  hands 

On  skulls  that  cannot  teach,  and  will  not  learn. 

Would  I  describe  a  preacher,  such  as  Paul,  395 

Were  he  on  Earth,  would  hear,  approve,  and  own, 
Paul  should  himself  direct  me.     I  would  trace 
His  master-strokes,  and  draw  from  his  design. 
I  would  express  him  simple,  grave,  sincere  ; 
In  doctrine  uncorrupt  ;  in  language  plain,  400 

And  plain  in  manner  ;  decent,  solemn,  chaste, 
And  natural  in  gesture  ;  much  impress'd 
Himself,  as  conscious  of  his  awful  charge, 
And  anxious  mainly  that  the  flock  he  feeds 
May  feel  it  too  ;  affectionate  in<look,  405 

And  tender  in  address,  as  well  becomes 
A  messenger  of  grace  to  guilty  men. 
Behold  the  picture  ! — Is  it  like  ? — Like  whom  ? 
The  things  that  mount  the  rostrum  with  a  skip, 
And  then  skip  down  again  ;  pronounce  a  text ;       410 
Cry — hem  ;  and,  reading  what  they  never  wrote 
Just  fifteen  minutes,  huddle  up  their  work. 
And  with  a  well-bred  whisper  close  the  scene  ! 

In  man  or  woman,  but  far  most  in  man, 
And  most  of  all  in  man  that  ministers  416 

And  serves  the  altar,  in  my  soul  I  loathe 
All  affectation.     'Tis  my  perfect  scorn  j 
Object  of  my  implacable  disgust. 
What ! — will  a  man  play  tricks — will  he  indulge 
A  silly  fond  conceit  of  his  fair  form,  480 

And  just  proportion,  fashionable  mien. 
And  pretty  face,  in  presence  of  his  God  ? 
Or  will  he  seek  to  dazzle  me  with  tM-pes, 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  41 

As  with  the  diamond  on  his  lily  hand, 
And  play  his  brilliant  parts  before  my  eyes,  425 

When  I  am  hungry  for  the  bread  of  life  ? 
He  mocks  his  Maker,  prostitutes  and  shames 
His  noble  office,  and,  instead  of  truth, 
Displaying  his  own  beauty,  starves  his  Hock. 
Therefore  avaunt  all  attitude  and  stare,  438 

And  start  theatrick,  practis'd  at  the  glass ! 
I  seek  divine  simplicity  in  him 
Who  handles  things  divine  ;  and  all  besides, 
Though  learn'd  with  labour,  and  though  much  admir'd 
By  curious  eyes  and  judgments  ill-inform'd,  435 

To  me  is  odious  as  the  nasal  twang 
Heard  at  conventicle  where  worthy  men, 
Misled  by  custom,  strain  celestial  themes 
TJirough  the  press'd  nostril,  spcctacle-bestrid. 
Some,  decent  in  demeanour  while  they  preach,       440 
That  task  perform'd,  relapse  into  themselves ; 
And,  having  spoken  wisely,  at  the  close 
Grow  wanton,  and  give  proof  to  ev'ry  eye. 
Whoe'er  was  edify'd,  themselves  were  not  I 
Forth  comes  the  pocket-mirror.    First  we  stroke    445 
An  eyebrow  ;  next  compose  a  straggling  lock , 
Then  with  an  air  most  gracefully  perform'd, 
Fall  back  into  our  seat,  extend  an  arm, 
And  lay  it  at  its  ease  with  gentle  care, 
With  handkerchief  in  hand  depending  low  ;  450 

The  better  hand  more  busy  gives  the  nose 
Its  bergamot,  or  aids  th'  indebted  eye 
With  op'ra  glass,  to  watch  the  moving  scene, 
And  recognise  the  slow  retiring  fair. — 
Now  this  is  fulsome  ;  and  offends  me  more  455 

Than  in  a  churchman  slovenly  neglect 
And  rustic  coarseness  would.    A  heavenly  mind 
May  be  indiff'rent  to  her  house  of  clay, 
And  slight  the  hovel  as  beneath  her  care  ; 
But  how  a  body  so  fantastic,  trim,  460 

4* 


42  THE  TASK. 

And  quaint,  in  its  deportment  and  attire, 

Can  lodge  a  heav'nly  mind — demands  a  doubt. 

He  that  negotiates  between  God  and  man, 
As  God's  ambassador,  the  grand  concerns 
Of  judgment  and  of  mercy,  should  beware  465 

Of  lightness  in  his  speech.     'Tis  pitiful 
To  court  a  grin,  when  you  should  woo  a  soul : 
To  break  a  jest,  when  pity  would  inspire 
Pathetick  exhortation  ;  and  t'  address 
The  skittish  fancy  with  facetious  tales,  470 

When  sent  with  God's  commission  to  the  heart ! 
So  did  not  Paul.     Direct  me  to  a  quip 
Or  merry  turn  in  all  he  ever  wrote. 
And  I  consent  you  take  it  for  your  text, 
Tour  only  one,  till  sides  and  benches  fail.  475 

No  :  he  was  serious  in  a  serious  cause, 
And  understood  too  well  the  weighty  terms, 
That  he  had  ta'en  in  charge.     He  would  not  stoop 
To  conquer  those  by  jocular  exploits. 
Whom  truth  and  soberness  assail'd  in  vain.  480 

O  Popular  Applause  !  what  heart  of  man 
Is  proof  against  thy  sweet  seducing  charms  ? 
The  wisest  and  the  best  feel  urgent  need 
Of  all  their  caution  in  thy  gentlest  gales ; 
But  swell'd  into  a  gust — who,  then,  alas  !  485 

With  all  hi|}  canvass  set,  and  inexpert. 
And  therefore  heedless,  can  withstand  thy  pow*r  ? 
Praise  from  the  rivell'd  lips  of  toothless,  bald 
Decrepitude,  and  in  the  looks  of  lean 
And  craving  Poverty,  and  in  the  bow  490 

Respectful  of  the  smutch'd  artificer. 
Is  oft  too  welcome  and  may  much  disturb 
The  bias  of  the  purpose.     How  much  more, 
Pour'd  forth  by  beauty  splendid  and  polite. 
In  language  soft  as  Adoration  breathes  }  495 

Ah,  spare  your  idol,  think  him  human  still. 
Charms  he  may  have,  but  he  has  frailties  too ! 
Dote  not  too  much  nor  spoil  what  ye  admire. 


—J 


~^^ 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  43 

All  truth  is  from  the  sempiternal  source 
Of  light  divine.     But  Egypt,  Greece,  and  Romei  500 
Drew  from  the  stream  below.     More  favour'd,  w© 
Drink  when  we  choose  it,  at  the  fountain  head. 
To  them  it  flow'd  much  mingled  and  defil'd 
With  hurtful  errour,  prejudice,  and  dreams 
Illusive  of  philosophy,  so  call'd,  50& 

Dut  falsely.     Sages  after  sages  strove 
In  vain  to  filter  off  a  crystal  draught 
Pure  from  the  lees,  which  often  more  enhanced 
The  thirst  than  slak'd  it,  and  not  seldom  bred 
Intoxication  and  delirium  wild.  510 

I J   vain  they  push'd  inquiry  to  the  birth 
And  spring-time  of  the  world  j  ask'd.  Whence  is  man ' 
Why  form'd  at  all  ?  and  wherefore  as  he  is  ? 
Where  must  he  find  his  maker  ?  with  what  rites 
Adore  him  .''  Will  he  hear,  accept,  and  bless .''  515 

Or  does  he  sit  regardless  of  his  works  ? 
Has  man  within  him  an  immortal  seed  ? 
Or  does  the  tomb  take  all  ?  If  he  survive 
His  ashes,  where .''  and  in  what  weal  or  wo  ? 
Knots  worthy  of  solution,  which  alone  520 

A  Deity  could  solve.     Their  answers,  vague 
And  all  at  random,  fabulous  and  dark. 
Left  them  as  dark  themselves.'   Their  rules  of  life 
Defective  and  unsanction'd,  prov'd  too  weak 
To  bind  the  roving  appetite,  and  lead  525 

Blind  nature  to  a  God  not  yet  reveal'd. 
"TTts  "Kevelation  satisfies  all  doubts. 
Explains  all  mysteries,  except  her  own, 
And  so  illuminates  the  path  of  life 
That  fools  discover  it,  and  stray  no  more.  530 

Now  tell  me,  dignified  and  sapient  sir. 
My  man  of  morals,  nurtur'd  in  the  shades 
Of  Academus — is  this  false  or  true  .'* 
Is  Christ  the  abler  teacher  or  the  schools 
If  Christ,  then  why  resort  at  ev'ry  turn  536 

To  Athens,  or  to  Rome,  for  wisdom  shore 


! 
44  THE  TASK.  * 

Of  man's  occasions,  when  in  him  reside 
Grace,  knowledge,  comfort — an  unfathom'd  store  ? 
How  oft,  when  Paul  has  serv'd  us  with  a  text, 
Has  Epictetus,  Plato,  Tully,  preach'd  !  540 

Men  that,  if  now  alive,  would  sit  content 
And  humble  learners  of  a  Saviour's  worth. 
Preach  it  who  might.     Such  was  their  love  of  truth, 
Their  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  their  candour  too. 

And  thus  it  is. — The  pastor,  either  vain  54i 

By  nature,  or  by  flatt'ry  made  so,  taught 
To  gaze  at  his  own  splendour,  and  t'  exalt 
Absurdly,  not  his  office,  but  himself; 
Or  unenlighten'd  and  too  proud  to  learn ; 
Or  vicious,  and  not  therefore  apt  to  teach  j  550 

Perverting  often  by  the  stress  of  lewd 
And  loose  example,  whom  he  should  instruct ; 
Exposeis,  and  holds  up  to  broad  disgrace, 
Tlje  noblest  function,  and  discredits  much 
The  brightest  truths  that  man  has  ever  seen.  555 

For  ghostly  counsel ;  if  it  either  fall 
Below  the  exigence,  or  be  not  back'd 
With  show  of  love,  at  least  with  hopeful  proof 
Of  some  sincerity  on  the  giver's  part ; 
Or  be  dishonour'd  in  th'  exteriour  form  560 

And  mode  of  its  conveyance,  by  such  tricks 
As  move  derision,  or  by  foppish  airs 
And  histrionick  mumm'ry  that  let  down 
The  pulpit  to  the  level  of  the  stage  ; 
Drops  from  the  lips  a  disregarded  thing.  562 

The  weak  perhaps  are  mov'd,  but  are  not  taught 
While  prejudice  in  men  of  stronger  minds 
Takes  deeper  root,  coniirm'd  by  what  they  see. 
A  relaxation  of  religion's  hold 

Upon  the  roving  and  untutor'd  heart  570 

Soon  follows,  and,  the  curb  of  conscience  snapped 
The  laity  run  wild.     But  do  they  now  .'* 
Note  their  extravagance,  and  be  convinc'd. 

As  nations,  ignorant  of  God,  contrive 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  45 

A  wooden  one  :  so  we,  no  longer  taught  575 

By  monitors,  that  mother  church  supplies, 
Now  make  our  own.     Posterity  will  ask, 
{If  e'er  posterity  see  verse  of  mine,) 
Some  fifty  or  a  hundred  lustrums  hence, 
What  was  a  monitor  in  George's  days  ?  580 

My  very  gentle  reader,  yet  unborn. 
Of  whom  I  needs  must  augur  better  things, 
Since  Heav'n  would  sure  grow  weary  of  a  world 
Productive  only  of  a  race  like  ours, 
A  monitor  is  wood — plank  shaven  thin.  585 

We/  v'car  it  at  our  backs.     There,  closely  brac'd 
And  neatly  fitted,  it  compresses  hard 
The  prominent  and  most  unsightly  bones, 
And  binds  the  shoulder  flat.    We  prove  its  use 
Sov'reign  and  most  effectual  to  secure  590 

A  form,  not  now  gymnastick  as  of  yore, 
From  rickets,  and  distortion,  else  our  lot. 
But  thus  admonish 'd,  we  can  walk  erect — 
One  proof  at  least  of  manhood  !  while  the  friend 
Sticks  close,  a  Mentor  worthy  of  his  charge.  595 

Our  habits,  costlier  than  Lucullus  wore, 
And  by  caprice  as  multiplied  as  his, 
Just  please  us  while  the  fashion  is  at  full, 
But  change  with  ev'ry  moon.    The  sycophanti 
Who  waits  to  dress  us,  arbitrates  their  date  ;  600 

Surveys  liis  fair  reversion  with  keen  eye  ; 
Finds  one  ill  made,  another  obsolete, 
This  fits  not  nicely,  that  is  ill  conceiv'd; 
And,  making  prize  of  all  that  he  condemns, 
With  our  expenditure  defrays  his  own.  605 

Variety's  the  very  spice  of  life. 
That  gives  it  all  its  flavour.    We  have  run 
Through  ev'ry  change,  that  Fancy  at  the  loom 
Exhausted,  has  had  genius  to  supply ; 
And  studious  of  mutation  still,  discard  610 

A  real  elegance,  a  little  us'd, 
For  monstrous  novelty  and  strange  disguise 


1^6  THE  TASK. 

We  sacrifice  to  dress,  till  household  joys 

And  comforts  cease.     Dross  drains  our  cellar  dry, 

And  keeps  our  larder  lean  :  puts  '^ut  our  fires ;         G15 

And  introduces  hunger,  frost,  and  wo, 

Where  peace  and  hospitality  might  reign. 

What  man  that  lives,  and  that  knows  how  to  live, 

Would  fail  t'  exhibit  at  the  publick  shows 

A  form  as  splendid  as  the  proudest  there,  620 

Though  appetite  raise  outcries  at  the  cost  ? 

A  man  o'  th'  town  dines  late,  but  soon  enough, 

With  reasonable  forecast  and  despatch, 

T'  ensure  a  side-box  station  at  half  price. 

You  think,  perhaps,  so  delicate  his^dress,  625 

His  daily  fare  as  delicate.     Alas  ! 

He  picks  clean  teeth,  and,  busy  as  he  seems 

With  an  old  tavern  quill,  is  hungry  yet ! 

The  rout  is  Folly's  circle,  which  she  draws 

With  magick  wand.     So  potent  is  the  spell,  630 

That  none,  decoy'd  into  that  fatal  ring. 

Unless  by  Heav'n's  peculiar  grace,  escape. 

There  we  grow  early  gray,  but  never  wise  ; 

There  form  connexions,  but  acquire  no  friend : 

Solicit  pleasure  hopeless  of  success  ;  635 

Waste  youth  in  occupations  only  fit 

For  second  childhood,  and  devote  old  age 

To  sports,  which  only  childhood  could  excuse. 

There,  they  are  happiest  who  dissemble  best 

Their  weariness  ;  and  they  the  most  polite  640 

Who  squander  time  and  treasure  with  a  smile. 

Though  at  their  own  destruction.     She  that  asks 

ITe**  dear  five  hundred  friends,  contemns  them  all. 

And  hates  their  coming.    They  (what  can  they  less  f) 

Make  just  reprisals  ;  and  with  cringe  and  shrug,     645 

And  bow  obsequious,  hide  their  hate  of  her. 

All  catch  the  frenzy,  downward  from  her  grace. 

Whose  flambeaux  flash  against  the  morning  skies, 

And  gild  our  chamber  ceilings  as  they  pass. 

To  her,  who,  frugal  only  that  her  thrift  650 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  f7 

May  f?ed  excesses  she  can  ill  afford, 
Is  hackney'd  home  unlackey'd  ;  who,  in  haste 
Alighting,  turns  the  key  in  her  own  door. 
And,  at  the  watchman's  lantern  borrowing  light, 
Finds  a  cold  bed  her  only  comfort  left.  655 

(Vives  beggar  husbands,  husbands  starve  their  wives, 
On  Fortune's  velvet  altar  off 'ring  up 
Tlioir  last  poor  pittance — Fortune,  most  severe 
Of  goddesses  yet  known,  and  costlier  far 
Than  all  that  held  their  routs  in  Juno's  Heav'n. —  660 
So  fare  we  in  this  prison-house,  the  Worldj 
And  'tis  a  fearful  spectacle  to  see 
So  many  maniacks  dancing  in  their  chains. 
They  gaze  upon  the  links,  that  hold  them  fast, 
With  eyes  of  anguish,  execrate  their  lot,  665 

Then  shake  them  in  despair,  and  dance  again  ' 

Now  basket  up  the  family  of  plagues, 
That  waste  our  vitals ;  peculation,  sale 
Of  honour,  perjury,  corruption,  frauds 
By  forgery,  by  subterfuge  of  law,  670 

By  tricks  and  lies  as  num'rous  and  as  keen 
As  the  necessities  their  authors  feel  : 
Then  cast  them,  closely  bundled,  ev'ry  brat 
At  the  right  door.     Profusion  is  the  sire. 
Profusion  unrestrained,  with  all  that's  base  675 

In  character,  has  litter'd  all  the  land. 
And  bred,  within  the  mem'ry  of  no  few, 
A  priesthood,  such  as  Baal's  was  of  old, 
A  people,  such  as  never  was  till  now. 
U  is  a  hungry  vice  : — it  eats  up  all  680 

That  gives  society  its  beauty,  strength. 
Convenience,  security,  and  use  : 
Wakes  men  mere  vermin,  worthy  to  be  trapped 
And  gibbeted,  as  fast  as  catchpole  claws 
Can  seize  the  slippery  prey  :  unties  the  knot  685 

Of  union,  and  converts  the  sacred  band 
That  holds  mankind  together,  to  a  scourge. 
Profusion  deluging  a  state  with  lusts 


48  THE  TASK. 

Of  grossest  nature  and  of  worst  effects, 

Prepares  it  for  its  ruin  :  hardens,  blinds,  GlKl 

And  warps,  the  consciences  of  publick  men, 

Till  they  can  laugh  at  Virtue  ;  mock  the  fools 

That  trust  them  ;  and  in  th"end  disclose  a  face. 

That  would  have  shock'd  Credulity  herself. 

Unmask'd,  vouchsafing  this  their  sole  excuse —       695 

Since  all  alike  are  selfish,  why  not  they  ? 

This  does  Profusion,  and  th'  accursed  cause 

Of  such  deep  mischief  has  itself  a  cause. 

In  colleges  and  halls  in  ancient  days. 
When  learning,  virtue,  piety,  and  truth,  700 

Were  precious  and  inculcated  with  care, 
There  dwelt  a  sage  call'd  Discipline.     His  head, 
Not  yet  by  time  completely  silver'd  o'er. 
Bespoke  him  past  the  bounds  of  freakish  youth. 
But  strong  for  service  still,  and  unimpair'd.  705 

His  eye  was  meek  and  gentle,  and  a  smile 
Play'd  on  his  lips ;  and  in  his  speech  was  heard 
Paternal  sweetness,  dignity,  and  love 
The  occupation  dearest  to  his  heart 
Was  to  encourage  goodness.     He  would  stroke      710 
The  head  of  modest  and  ingenious  worth. 
That  blush'd  at  his  own  praise  :  and  press  the  youth 
Close  to  his  side  that  pleas'd  him.     Learning  grew 
Beneath  his  care,  a  thriving  vigorous  plant ; 
The  mind  was  well  informed,  tho  passions  held        715 
Subordinate,  and  diligence  was  choice. 
If  e'er  it  chanc'd,  as  sometimes  chance  it  musty 
That  one  among  so  many  overleap 'd 
The  limits  of  control,  his  gentle  eye 
Grew  stern,  and  darted  a  severe  rebuke ;  720 

His  frown  was  full  of  terrour,  and  his  voice 
Shook  the  delinquent  with  such  fits  of  awe, 
As  left  him  not,  till  penitence  had  won 
Lost  favour  back  again,  and  clos'd  the  breach. 
But  Discipline,  a  faithful  servant  long,  723 

Declin'd  at  length  into  the  vale  of  years  • 


THE  TIME-riECE  49 

A  palsy  struck  his  arm  ;  his  sparkling  eye 
Was  quenched  in  rheums  of  a^e  ;  his  voice,  unstrung, 
Grew  tremulous,  and  mov'd  derision  more 
Than  rev'rence,  in  perverse  rebelliaus  youth.  730 

So  colleges  and  halls  neglected  much 
Their  good  old  friend  ;  and  Discipline  at  length, 
O'erlook'd  and  unemployed,  fell  sick  and  died. 
Then  Study  languished.  Emulation  slept, 
And  Virtue  fled.    The  schools  became  a  scene        735 
Of  solemn  farce,  where  Ignorance  in  stilts, 
His  cap  well  lin'd  with  logick  not  his  own. 
With  parrot  tongue  perform'd  the  scholar's  part, 
Proceeding  soon  a  graduated  dunce. 
Then  compromise  had  place,  and  scrutiny-  740 

Became  stone  blind  ;  precedence  went  in  trucK, 
And  he  was  competent  whose  purse  was  so. 
A  dissolution  of  all  bonds  ensued  ; 
The  curbs  invented  for  the  mulish  mouth 
Of  headstrong  youth  were  broken  ;  bars  and  bolts  745 
Grew  rusty  by  disuse  ;  and  ftiassy  gates 
Forgot  their  office,  op'ning  with  a  touch  ; 
Till  gowns  at  length  are  found  mere  masquerade, 
The  tassePd  cap  and  the  spruce  band  a  jest, 
A  mock'ry  of  the  world !  What  need  of  these  750 

For  gamesters,  jockeys,  brothelers  impure, 
Spendthrifts,  and  booted  sportsmen,  oft'ner  seen 
With  belted  waist  and  pointers  at  their  heels. 
Than  in  the  bounds  of  duty  ?  What  was  learn'd| 
If  aught  was  leam'd  in  childliood,  is  forgot  •  755 

And  such  expense,  as  pinches  parents  blue, 
And  mortifies  the  lib'ral  hand  of  love. 
Is  squander'd  in  pursuit  of  idle  sports 
And  vicious  plcaEurel^  buys  the  boy  a  name 
Thai  sits  a  stigma  on  his  father's  house,  760 

And  cleaves  through  life  inseparably  close 
To  him  that  wears  it.    What  can  after  games 
Of  riper  joys,  and  commerce  with  the  world, 
Vol.  H.  5 


50  THE  TASK. 

The  lewd  vain  world,  that  must  receive  him  soon^ 

Add  to  such  erudition,  thus  acquired,  765 

Where  science  and  where  virtue  are  professed  ? 

They  may  confirm  his  habits,  rivet  fast 

His  folly,  but  to  spoil  him  is  a  task 

That  bids  defiance  to  th'  united  powers 

Of  fashion,  dissipation,  taverns,  stews.  770 

Now  blame  we  most  the  nurselings  or  the  nurse  ? 

The  children  crook'd,  and  twisted,  and  deform'd, 

Thfough  want  of  care ;  or  her,  whose  winking  eye 

And  slumb'ring  oscitancy  mars  the  brood .'' 

The  nurse,  no  doubt.     Regardless  of  her  charge,    775 

She  needs  herself  correction  3  needs  to  learn 

That  it  is  dang'rous  sporting  with  the  world, 

With  things  so  sacred  as  a  nation's  trust. 

The  nurture  of  her  youth,  her  dearest  pledge. 

All  are  not  such.     I  had  a  brother  once —  780 

Peace  to  the  memory  of  a  man  of  worth, 
A  man  of  letters,  and  of  manners  too  ! 
Of  manners  sweet  as  Virtue  always  wears. 
When  gay  good-natured  dresses  her  in  smiles. 
He  grac'd  a  college,*  in  which  order  yet  785 

Was  sacred  ;  and  was  honour 'd,  lov'd,  and  wept 
By  more  than  one,  themselves  conspicuous  there. 
Some  minds  are  temper'd  happily,  and  mix'd 
With  such  ingredients  of  good  sense,  and  taste 
Of  what  is  excellent  in  man,  they  thirst  790 

With  such  a  zeal  to  be  what  they  approve, 
That  no  restraints  can  circumscribe  them  more 
Than  they  themselves  by  choice,  for  wisdom's  sake. 
Nor  can  example  hurt  them  ;  what  they  see 
Of  vice  ir  others  but  enhancing  more  790 

The  charms  of  virtue  in  their  jigit  esteem. 
If  such  escape  contagion,  and  emerge 
Pure  from  so  foul  a  pool  to  shine  abroad, 
And  give  the  world  their  talents  and  themselves 
BeneH  Coll  Cambridge. 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  51 

Small  thanka  to  those  whose  negligence  or  sloth     ^(y  ^ 
Expos'd  their  inexperience  to  the  snare,  *' 

And  left  them  to  an  undirected  choice. 

See  then  the  quiver  broken  and  decay 'd, 
In  which  are  kept  our  arrows  !  Rusting  there 
In  wild  disorder,  and  unfit  for  use,  805\ 

What  wonder,  if  discharg'd  into  the  world, 
They  shame  their  shooters  with  a  random  flignt, 
Their  points  obtuse,  and  feathers  drunk  with  wine ! 
Well  may  the  church  wage  unsuccessful  war 
With  such  artill'ry  arm'd.     Vice  parries  wide  810 

Th'  undreaded  volley  with  a  sword  of  straw, 
And  stands  an  impudent  and  fearless  mark. 

Have  we  not  track'd  the  felon  home,  and  found 
His  birthplace  and  his  dam  ?  The  country  mourns, 
Mourns  because  ev'ry  plague  that  can  infest  815 

Society,  and  that  saps  and  worms  the  base 
Of  th'  edifice  that  policy  has  rais'd. 
Swarms  in  all  quarters :  meets  the  eye,  the  ear, 
And  suffocates  the  breath  at  ev'ry  turn. 
Profusion  breeds  them  ;  and  the  cause  itself  820 

Of  that  calamitous  mischief  has  been  found  : 
Found,  too,  where  most  otfensive,  in  the  skirts 
Of  the  rob'd  pedagogue  !  Else  let  th'  arraigned 
Stand  up  unconscious,  and  refute  the  charge. 
^So  when  the  Jewish  leader  stretch'd  his  arm,  825 

And  wav'd  his  rod  divine,  a  race  obscene, 
Spawn'd  in  the  muddy  beds  of  Nile,  came  fortn, 
{Polluting  Egypt  :  gardens,  fields,  and  plains. 
Were  cover'd  with  the  pest ;  the  streets  were  filPd ; 
The  croaking  nuisance  lurk'd  in  ev'ry  nook  ;  83C 

Nor  palaces,  nor  even  chambers,  'gcap'd  ; 
And  the  land  stank — so  num'rous  was  the  fry. 


THE  TASK. 


BOOK  in. 


THE  GARDEN. 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  THIRD  BOOK. 

Self-recollection,  and  reproof— Address  to  domestick  happiness- 
Some  account  of  myself— The  vanity  of  many  of  their  pursuit*, 
who  are  reputed  wise— Justification  of  my  censures— Divine  li- 
lumination  necessary  to  the  most  expert  philosopher.— The  ques- 
tion, What  is  truth  >.  answered  by  other  questions— Womestick 
happiness  addressed  again— Few  loversof  the  country— My  tame 
hare— Occupations  of  a  retired  gentleman  in  his  garden— Pruning 
—Framing— Greenljouse-Sowing  of  flower  seeds— The  country 
preferable  to  the  town  even  in  the  winter— Reasons  why  it  is 
deserted  at  that  season— Ruinous  effects  of  gaming  and  of  ex- 
pensive improvement— Book  concludes  with  an  apostrophe  to  th« 
metropolis. 

AS  one,  who  long  in  thickets  and  in  brakes 

Entangled,  winds  now  this  way  and  now  that 

His  devious  course  uncertain,  seeking  home; 

Or  having  long  m  miry  ways  been  foil'd 

And  sore  discomfited,  from  slough  to  slough  6 

Plunging,  and  half  despairing  of  escape  ; 

[f  chance  at  length  he  find  a  greensward  smooth 

And  faithful  to  the  foot,  his  spirits  rise, 

He  cherups  brisk  his  ear-erecting  steed. 

And  winds  his  way  with  pleasure  and  with  ease        10 

So  I,  designing  other  themes,  and  call'd 

T'  adorn  the  Sofa  with  ^ulogium  due, 


THE  GAKui.N.  53 

To  tell  its  slumbers,  and  to  paint  its  dreams, 

Have  rambled  wide.     In  country,  city,  seat 

Of  academick  fame,  (howe'er  deserv'd,)  15 

Long  held,  and  scarcely  disengag'd  at  last : 

But  now  with  pleasant  pace  a  cleanlier  road 

I  mean  to  tread.     I  feel  myself  at  large. 

Courageous,  and  refresh'd  for  future  toil, 

If  toil  await  me,  or  if  dangers  new.  20 

Since  pulpits  fail,  and  sounding  boards  reflect 
Most  part  an  empty  ineffectual  sound. 
What  chance  that  I,  to  fame  so  little  known,  \ 

Nor  conversant  with  men  or  manners  much,  ' 

Should  speak  to  purpose,  or  with  better  hope  25 

Crack  the  satirick  thong  ?  'Twere  wiser  far 
For  me,  enaraour'd  of  sequester'd  scenes, 
And  charm'd  with  rural  beauty,  to  repose 
Where  chance  may  throw  me,  beneath  elm  or  vmo 
My  languid  limbs  ;  when  summer  sears  the  plains ;  30 
Or,  when  rough  winter  rages,  on  the  soft 
And  sheher'd  Sofa,  while  the  nitrous  air 
•  Feeds  a  blue  flame,  and  makes  a  cheerful  hearth ; 
There,  undisturb'd  by  Folly,  and  apprized 
How  great  the  danger  of  disturbing  her,  35 

To  muse  in  silence,  or  at  least  confine 
Remarks,  that  gall  so-many,  to  the  few 
My  partners  in  retreat.     Disgust  conceal'd 
Is  ofttimes  proof  of  wisdom,  when  the  fault 
Is  obstinate,  and  cure  beyond  our  reach.  40 

Domestick  happiness,  thou  only  bliss 
Of  Paradise,  that  has  surviv'd  the  fall ! 
Though  few  now  taste  thee  unimpair'd  and  pure 
Or  tasting,  long  enjoy  thee  !  too  infirm. 
Or  too  incautious,  to  preserve  thy  sweets  45^ 

Unmix'd  with  drops  of  bitter,  which  neglect 
Or  temper  sheds  into  thy  crystal  cup ; 
Thou  art  the  nurse  of  Virtue — in  thine  arms 
She  smiles,  appearing,  as  in  truth  she  is, 
Heav'n-born,  and  destin'd  to  the  skies  again.  50 

5* 


45^ 


54  THE  TASK. 

Thou  art  not  known  where  Pleasure  is  ador  d, 
That  reeling  goddess,  with  the  zoneless  waist 
And  wand'ring  eyes,  still  leaning  on  the  arm 
Of  Novelty,  her  fickle,  frail  support ; 
For  thou  art  meek  and  constant,  hating  change,  1-55 
And  finding  in  the  calm  of  truth-tried  love, 
Joys  that  her  stormy  raptures  never  yield. 
Forsaking  thee,  what  shipwreck  have  we  made 
Of  honour,  dignity,  and  fair  renown  ! 
Till  prostitution  elbows  us  aside  60 

In  all  our  crowded  streets ;  and  senates  seem 
Conven'd  for  purposes  of  empire  less 
Than  to  release  the  adult'ress  from  her  bond. 
Th'  adult'ress  !  what  a  theme  for  angry  verse  ! 
What  provocation  to  th'  indignant  heart,  65 

That  feels  for  injur'd  love  !  but  I  disdain 
The  nauseous  task  to  paint  her  as  she  is, 
Cruel,  abandon'd,  glorying  in  her  shame  ? 
No  : — let  her  pass,  and,  charioted  along 
In  guilty  splendour,  shake  the  publick  ways  j  70 

The  frequency  of  crimes  has  wash'd  them  white, 
And  verse  of  mine  shall  never  brand  the  wretch, 
Whom  matrons  now  of  character  unsmirch'd 
And  chaste  themselves,  are  not  asham'd  to  own. 
Virtue  and  vice  had  bound'ries  in  old  time,        '        75 
Not  to  be  pass'd  :  and  she  that  had  renounced 
Her  sex's  honour,  was  renounc'd  herself  ' 
By  all  that  priz'd  it ;  not  for  prud'ry's  sake 
But  dignity's,  resentful  of  the  wrong. 
Twas  hard  perhaps  on  here  and  there  a  waif,  60 

")esirous  to  return  and  not  receiv'd  • 
tut  was  a  wholesome  rigour  in  the  main, 
^   And  taught  th'  unblemish'd  to  preserve  with  care 
That  purity,  whose  loss  was  loss  of  all. 
Men  too  were  nice  in  honour  in  those  days,  85 

And  judg'd  offenders  well.     Then  he  that  sharped, 
And  pocketed  a  prize  by  fraud  obtain'd,       \ 
Was  mark'd  and  shunn'd  as  odious.    Ho  that  sold 


THE  GARDEN.  55 

His  country,  or  was  slack  when  she  required 

His  ev'ry  nerve  in  action  and  at  stretch,  90 

Paid  with  the  blood  that  he  had  basely  spar'd  *'' 

The  price  of  his  default.     But  now — yes,  now 

We  are  become  so  candid  and  so  fair 

So  lib'ral  in  construction,  and  so  rich 

In  christian  charity,  (good  natur'd  age  !)  95 

That  they  are  safe  ;  sinners  of  either  sex 

Transgress  what  laws  they  may.    Well  dresg'd,  n-oU 

bred, 
Well  equipag'd,  is  ticket  good  enough, 
To  pass  as  readily  through  ev'ry  door. 
Hypocrisy,  detest  her  as  we  may,  100 

(And  no  man's  hatred  ever  wrong'd  her  yet, 
May  claim  this  merit  still — that  she  admits 
The  worth  of  what  she  mimicks,  with  such  care, 
And  thus  gives  virtue  indirect  applauge  j 
But  she  has  burnt  her  mask,  not  needed  here,  105 

Where  vice  has  such  allowance,  that  her  shifts 
And  specious  semblances  have  lost  their  use.  \ 

I  was  a  stricken  deer,  that  left  the  herd  \ 

Long  since.     With  many  an  arrow  deep  infix'd  \ 

My  panting  side  was  charg'd,  when  I  withdrew      110 
To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades, 
'^here  was  I  found  by  one  who  had  himself 
Been  hurt  by  th'  archers.     In  his  side  he  bore, 
And  in  his  hands  and  feet,  the  cruel  scars. 
With  gentle  force  soliciting  the  darts,  115 

He  drew  them  forth,  and  heal'd,  and  bade  me  live. 
Since  then,  with  few  associates,  in  remote 
A^d  silent  woods  I  wander,  far  from  those 
My  former  partners  of  the  peopled  scene ; 
With  few  associates,  and  not  wishing  more.' 
Here  much  I  ruminate,  as  much  I  may, 
With  other  views  of  men  and  manners  now 
Than  once,  and  others  of  a  life  to  come  •  *»  * 

I  see  that  all  are  wand'rers,  gone  astray 
Each  in  his  own  delusions  ;  they  are  lort  125 


P 


66  -THE  TASK. 

In  chase  of  fancied  happiness,  still  woo'd 
And  never  won.     Dream  after  dream  ensues  ; 
And  still  they  dream  that  they  shall  still  succeed 
And  still  are  disappointed.     Rings  the  world 
With  the  vain  stir.     I  sum  up  half  manxind  130 

And  add  two  thirds  of  the  remaining  half, 
And  find  the  total  of  their  hopes  and  fears 
Dreams,  empty  dreams.     The  million  flit  as  gay, 
As  if  created  only  like  the  fly, 

That  spreads  his  motley  wings  in  th'  eye  of  noon,  135 
To  sport  their  season,  and  be  seen  no  more. 
The  rest  are  sober  dreamers,  grave  and  wise, 
And  pregnant  with  discoveries  new  and  rare. 
Some  write  a  narrative  of  wars,  and  feats 
Of  heroes  little  known  ;  and  call  the  rant  140 

A  history  :  describe  the  man,  of  whom 
His  own  coeval^  took  but  little  note, 
And  paint  his  person,  character,  and  views, 
As  they  had  known  him  from  his  mother's  womb. 
They  disentangle  from  the  puzzled  skein,  145 

In  which  obscurity  has  wrapp'd  them  up. 
The  threads  of  politick  and  shrewd  design. 
That  ran  through  all  his  purposes,  and  charge 
His  mind  with  meanings  that  he  never  had, 
Or,  having,  kept  conseal'd.     Some  drill  and  bore    150 
The  solid  earth,  and  from  the  strata  there 
fjxtract  a  register,  by  which  we  learn. 
That  he  who  made  it  and  reveal'd  its  date 
To  Moses,  was  mistaken  in  its  age. 
3ome,  more  acute,  and  more  industrious  still,  155 

Qtrive  creation  ;  travel  nature  up 
^he  sharp  peak  of  her  sublimest  height, 
Ifd  tell  us  whence  the  stars ;  why  some  are  fix*d, 
nd  planetary  some  ;  what  gave  them  first 
rotation,  from  what  fountain  flow'd  their  light.       IGO 
(SSfeat  contest  follows,  and  much  learned  dust 
Involves  the  combatants  ;  each  claiming  truth, 
And  truth  disclaiming  both.    And  thus  they  spend 


THE  GARDEN.  ft? 

The  little  wick  of  life's  poor  shallow  lamp 

111  playing  tricks  with  nature,  giving  laws  IG5 

To  distant  worlds,  and  trifling  in  their  own. 

Is't  not  a  pity  now,  that  tickling  rheums 

Should  ever  tease  the  lungs,  and  blear  the  sight 

Of  oracles  like  these  ?  Great  pity,  too, 

That  having  wielded  th'  elements,  and  built  170 

A  thousand  systems,  each  in  his  own  way, 

They  should  go  out  in  fume,  and  be  forgot 

Ah  !  what  is  life  thus  spent  ?  and  what  are  they 

But  frantick,  who  thus  spend  it  ?  all  for  smoke — 

Eternity  for  bubbles,  proves  at  last  175 

A  senseless  bargain.     When  I  see  such  games 

Play'd  by  the  creatures  of  a  pow'r  who  swears 

That  he  will  judge  the  Earth,  and  call  the  fool 

To  a  sharp  reck'ning,  that  has  liv'd  in  vain ; 

And  when  I  weigh  this  seeming  wisdom  well,         180 

And  prove  it  in  th'  infallible  result 

So  hollow  and  so  false — I  feel  my  heart 

Dissolve  in  pity,  and  account  the  learn'd, 

If  this  be  learning,  most  of  all  deceiv'd. 

Great  crimes  alarm  the  conscience,  but  it  sleeps,    185 

While  thoughtful  man  is  plausibly  amused. 

Defend  me,  therefore,  common  sense,  say  I,, 

From  reveries  so  airy,  from  the  toil 

Of  dropping  buckets  into  empty  wells. 

And  growing  old  in  drawing  nothing  up !  190 

'Twere  well,  says  one,  sage,  erudite,  profound 
Terribly  arch'd  and  aquiline  his  nose. 
And  overbuilt  with  most  impending  brows, 
'Twere  well,  could  you  permit  the  World  to  live 
As  the  world  pleases  :  what's  the  World  to  you 
Much.     I  was  born  of  woman,  and  drew  milk 
As  sweet  as  charity  from  human  breasts. 
I  think,  articulate — I  laugh  and  weep. 
And  exercise  all  functions  of  a  man. 
How  then  should  I  and  any  man  that  lives 
Be  strangers  to  each  other  ?  Pierce  my  vein, 


58  THE  TASK. 

Take  of  the  crimson  stream  meand'ring  there, 
And  catechise  it  well :  apply  thy  glass, 
Search  it,  and  prove  now  if  it  be  not  blood 
Congenial  with  thine  own  :  and,  if  it  be,  5^^ 

What  edge  of  subtlety  canst  thou  suppose 
Keen  enough,  wise  and  skilful  as  thou  art, 
To  cut  the  link  of  brotherhood,  by  which 
One  common  Maker  bound  me  to  the  kind  ? 
True  ;  I  am  no  proficient,  I  confess,  21G 

In  arts  like  yours.     I  cannot  call  the  swift 
And  perilous  lightnings  from  the  angry  clouds, 
And  bid  them  hide  themselves  in  earth  beneath  ; 
I  "annot  analyze  the  air,  nor  catch 
The  parallax  of  yonder  luminous  point,  215 

That  seems  half  quenched  in  the  immense  abyss  • 
Such  powers  I  boast  not — neither  can  I  rest 
A  silent  witness  of  the  headlong  rage, 
Or  heedless  folly,  by  which  thousands  die, 
Bone  of  my  bone,  and  kindred  souls  to  mine.  220 

God  never  meant  that  man  should  scale  the  Heav'ns  .^ 
y  strides  of  human  wisdom.    In  his  works. 
Though  wondrous,  he  commands  us  in  his  word 
To  seek  him  rather  where  his  mercy  shines. 
The  mind,  indeed,  enlighten'd  from  above,  225 

Views  him  in  all ;  ascribes  to  the  grand  cause 
The  grand  effect ;  acknowledges  with  joy 
His  manner,  and  with  rapture  tastes  his  style. 
But  never  yet  did  philosophick  tube, 
ff  hat  brings  the  planets  home  into  the  eye  230 

■£  observation,  and  discovers,  else 
|ft  visible,  his  family  of  worlds, 
loiscover  him  that  rules  them  ;  such  a  veil 
Itlangs  over  mortal  eyes,  blind  from  the  birth, 
^^d  dark  in  things  divine.     Full  often  too,  235 

^^^Eayward  intellect,  the  more  we  learn 
T^Bure,  overlooks  her  author  more  ; 
From  instrumental  causes  proud  to  draw 
Conclusions  retrograde,  and  mad  mistake 


THF  GARDEN.  59 

But  if  his  word  once  teach  us — shoot  a  ray  240 

Through  all  the  heart's  dark  chambers,  and  reveal 
Truths  undiscern'd  but  by  that  holy  light ', 
Then  all  is  plain.     Philosophy,  baptiz'd 
In  the  pure  fountain  of  eternal  love. 
Has  eyes  indeed  ;  and  viewing  all  she  sees  245 

As  meant  to  indicate  a  God  to  man, 
Gives  him  his  praise,  and  forfeits  not  her  own. 
Learning  has  borne  such  fruit  in  other  days 
On  all  her  branches :  piety  has  found 
Friends  in  the  friends  of  science,  and  true  pray'r    250 
Has  flow'd  from  lips  wet  with  Castalian  dews. 
Such  was  thy  wisdom,  Newton,  childlike  sage ! 
Sagacious  reader  of  the  works  of  God, 
And  in  his  word  sagacious.     Such,  too,  thine, 
Milton,  whose  genius  had  angelick  wings,  255 

And  fed  on  manna  !  And  such  thine,  in  whom 
Our  British  Themis  gloried  with  just  cause, 
Immortal  Hale  !  for  deep  discernment  prais'd, 
And  sound  integrity,  not  more  than  fam'd 

■  For  sanctity  of  manners  undefil'd.  260 

All  flesh  is  grass,  and  all  its  glory  fades 
Like  the  fair  flow'r  dishevell'd  in  the  wind ; 

—Riches  have  wings,  and  grandeur  is  a  dream  r^ 
The  man  we  celebrate  must  find  a  tomb, 
And  wo  that  worship  him,  ignoble  graves.  265 

Nothing  is  proof  against  the  gen'ral  curse 
Of  vanity  that  seizes  all  below. 
The  only  amaranthine  flow'r  on  earth 
Is  virtue  ;  th'  only  lasting  treasure,  truth. 
But  what  is  truth  ?  'Twas  Pilate's  question  put       270 
To  Truth  itself,  that  deign'd  him  no  reply. 
And  wherefore  .''  will  not  God  impart  his  light 
To  them  that  ask  it  ? — Freely — 'tis  his  joy, 
His  glory,  and  his  naturej  to  impart. 
But  to  the  proud,  uncandid,  insincere,  275 

Or  negligent  inquirer,  not  a  spark. 
What ;»  that  which  brings  contempt  upon  a  bookf 


60  THE  TASK. 

And  him  who  writes  it,  though  the  style  be  noat, . 

The  method  clear,  and  argument  exact  r 

That  makes  a  minister  in  holy  tnings  280 

The  joy  of  many,  and  the  dread  of  more. 

His  name  a  theme  for  praise  and  for  reproach  ?— 

That,  while  it  gives  us  worth  in  God's  account, 

Depreciates  and  undoes  us  in  our  own  ? 

What  pearl  is  it,  that  rich  men  cannot  buy,  385 

That  learning  is  too  proud  to  gather  up  ; 

But  which  the  poor,  and  the  despis'd  of  all, 

Seek  and  obtain,  and  often  find  unsought ; 

Tell  me — and  I  will  tell  thee  what  is  truth. 

O  friendly  to  the  best  pursuits  of  man,  290 

Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peace  ' 
Domestick  life  in  rural  leisure  pass'd  ! 
Few  know  thy  value,  and  few  taste  thy  sweets ; 
Though  many  boast  thy  favours,  and  affect 
To  understand  and  choose  thee  for  their  own.  295 

But  foolish  man  foregoes  his  proper  bliss, 
E'en  a?  his  first  progenitor,  and  quits, 
Though  plac'd  in  Paradise,  (for  earth  has  still, 
Some  traces  of  her  youthful  beauty  left) 
Substantial  happiness  for  transient  joy  :  -  300 

Scenes  form'd  for  contemplation,  and  to  nurse 
The  growing  seeds  of  wisdom  ;  that  suggest 
By  ev'ry  pleasing  image  they  present, 
Reflections  such  as  meliorate  the  heart, 
Compose  the  passions,  and  exalt  the  mind ;  305 

Scenes  such  as  these  'tis  his  supreme  delight 
To  fill  with  riot,  and  defile  .with  blood. 
Should  some  contagion,  kind  to  the  poor  brutes 
We  persecute,  annihilate  the  tribes 
That  draw  the  sportsman  over  hill  and  dale,  310 

Fearless  and  wrapt  away  from  all  his  cares ; 
Should  never  game-fowl  hatch  her  eggs  again, 
Nor  baited  hook  deceive  the  fish's  eye  ; 
Could  pageantry  and  dance,  and  feast  and  song, 
Be  quell'd  in  all  our  summer-months'  retreats ;        315 


THE  GARDEN. 
How  many  self-deluded  nymphs  and  swu^~, 
Who  dream  they  have  a  taste  for  fields  arid  groves,      T^f-\^ 
Would  find  them  hideous  nurs'ries  of  the  spleen,         .  *  v^  *" 
And  crowd  the  roads,  impatient  for  the  town ! 
They  love  the  country,  and  none  else,  who  seek,    320 
For  their  own  sake,  its  silence  and  its  shade. 
Delights  which  who  would  leave  that  has  a  hearf^ 
Susceptible  of  pity,  or  a  mind 
Cultur'd  and  capable  of  sober  thought 
For  all  the  savage  din  of  the  swift  pack  325 

And  clamours  of  the  field  ? — Detested  sport. 
That  owes  its  pleasures  to  another's  pain  ; 
That  feeds  upon  the  sobs  and  dying  shrieks 
Of  harmless  nature,  dumb,  but  yet  endued 
With  eloquence,  that  agonies  inspire,  330 

Of  silent  tears  and  heart-distending  sighs  ? 
Vain  tears,  alas,  and  sighs  that  never  find 
A  corresponding  tone  in  jovial  souls ! 
Well — one  at  least  is  safe.     One  shelterM  hare 
Has  never  heard  the  sanguinary  yell  335 

Of  cruel  man,  exulting  in  her  woes. 
Innocent  partner  of  my  peaceful  home, 
W^hom  ten  long  years'  experience  of  my  care 
Has  made  at  last  familiar  :  she  has  lost 
Much  of  her  vigilant  instinctive  dread,  340 

Not  needful  here,  beneath  a  roof  like  mine. 
Yes — thou  mayst  eat  thy  bread,  and  lick  the  hand 
That  feeds  thee ;  thou  mayst  frolick  on  the  floor 
At  ev'ning,  and  at  night  retire  secure 
To  thy  straw  couch,  and  slumber  unalarm'd  ,  345 

For  I  have  gained  thy  confidence,  have  pledg'd 
All  that  is  human  in  me,  to  protect 
Thine  unsuspecting  gratitude  and  love. 
If  I  survive  thee,  I  will  dig  thy  grave ; 
And,  when  I  place  thee  in  it,  sighing  say,  350 

[  knew  at  least  one  hare  that  had  a  friend.* 

*  See  the  note  at  the  end. 
Vol.  II.  6 


62  THE  TASK. 

How  various  his  employments,  whom  the  woild 
Calls  idle  j  and  who  justly  in  return 
Esteems  that  busy  world  an  idler  too ! 
Friends,  books,  a  garden,  and  perhaps  his  pen,        355 
Delightful  industry  enjoy 'd  at  home, 
And  nature  in  her  cultivated  trim 
Di^s'd  to  his  taste,  inviting  him  abroad — 
Can  he  want  occupation  who  has  these  ? 
Will  he  be  idle  who  has  much  t'  enjoy  ?  360 

Me  therefore  studious  of  laborious  ease, 
Not  slothful,  happy  to  deceive  the  time, 
Not  waste  it,  and  aware  that  human  life 
Is  but  a  loan  to  be  repaid  with  use, 
When  He  shall  call  his  debtors  to  account,  365 

From  whom  are  all  our  blessings,  business  finds 
E'en  here  :  while  sedulous  I  seek  t'  improve, 
At  least  neglect  not,  or  leave  unqinploy'd, 
The  mind  ho  gave  me ;  driving  it,  though  slack 
Too  oft,  and  much  impeded  in  its  work  370 

By  causes  not  to  be  divulg'd  in  vain, 
To  its  just  point — the  service  of  mankind. 
He  that  attends  to  his  interiour  self. 
That  has  a  heart,  and  keeps  it  j  has  a  mind 
That  hungers  and  supplies  it ;  and  who  seeks         375 
A  social,  not  a  dissipated  life. 
Has  business  j  feels  himself  engag'd  t'  achieve 
No  unimportant,  though  a  silent  task. 
A  life  all  turbulence  and  noise  may  seem 
To  him  that  leads  it  wise,  and  to  be  prais'd;  380 

But  wisdom  is  a  pearl  with  most  success 
Sought  in  still  water,  and  beneath  clear  skies 
He  that  is  ever  occupied  in  storms, 
Or  dives  not  for  it,  or  brings  up  instead. 
Vainly  industrious,  a  disgraceful  prize.  385 

The  morning  finds  the  self-sequester'd  man 
Fresh  for  his  task,  intend  what  task  he  may. 
Whether  inclement  seasons  recommend 
His  warm  but  simple  home,  where  he  enjoys 


.V 


THE  GARDEN.  63 

With  her  who  shares  his  pleasures  and  his  heart,    390 
Sweet  converse,  sipping  calm  the  fragrant  lymph, 
Which  neatly  she  prepares :  then  to  his  book 
Well  chosen,  and  not  sullenly  perus'd 
In  selfish  silence,  but  imparted,  oft 
As  aught  occurs  that,  she  may  smile  to  hear,  395 

Or  turn  to  nourisnnient,  digested  well.  • 

Or  if  the  garden  with  its  many  cares, 
All  well  repaid,  demand  him,  he  attends 
The  welcome  call,  conscious  how  much  the  hand 
Of  lubbard  Labour  needs  his  watchful  eye,  400 

on,  loit'ring  lazily,  if  not  o'erseen, 
Or  misapplying  his  unskilful  strength. 
Nor  does  he  govern  only,  or  direct, 
But  much  performs  himself.     No  v/orks  indeed, 
That  ask  robust,  tough  sinews  bred  to  toil,  405 

Servile  employ  ;  but  such  as  may  amuse, 
Not  tire,  demanding  rather  skill  than  force. 
Proud  of  his  well-spread  walls,  he  views  his  trees, 
That  meet,  no  barren  interval  between. 
With  pleasure  more  than  e'en  their  fruits  afford ;    410 
Which,  save  himself  who  trains  them,  none  can  feel. 
These  therefore  are  his  own  peculiar  charge ; 
No  meaner  hand  may  discipline  the  shoots, 
None  but  his  steel  approach  them.     What  is  weak, 
Distemper'd,  or  has  lost  prolifick  pow'rs,  415 

Impair'd  by  age,  his  unrelenting  hand 
Dooms  to  the  knife  :  nor  does  he  spare  the  soft 
And  succulent,  that  feeds  its  giant  growth, 
But  barren,  at.tli'  expense  of  neighb'ring  twigs 
Less  ostentatious,  and  yet  studded  thick  420 

With  hopeful  gems.     The  rest,  no  portion  left 
That  may  disgrace  his  art,  or  disappoint 
Large  expectation,  he  disposes  neat 
At  measur'd  distances,  that  air  and  sun, 
Admitted  freely  may  afford  their  aid,  42& 

\nd  ventilate  and  warm  the  swelling  buds. 
Hence  summer  has  hei:  riches,  Autumn  henco. 


i^i 


Bi  THE  TASK. 

And  hence  e'en  Winter  fills  his  wither'd  hand 

With  blushing  fruits,  and  plenty  not  his  own.* 

Fair  recompense  of  labour  well  bestow'd.  430 

And  wise  precaution  ;  which  a  clime  so  rude 

Makes  needful  still,  -whose  Spring  is  but  the  child 

Of  churlish  Winter,  in  her  froward  moods 

Discpv'ring  much  the  temper  of  her  sire. 

For  oft,  as  if  in  her  the  stream  of  mild  435 

Maternal  nature  had  revers'd  its  course, 

She  brings  her  infants  forth  with  many  smiles ; 

But  once  deliver 'd,  kills  them  with  a  frown. 

He  therefore,  timely  warn'd,  himself  supplies 

Her  want  of  care,  screening  and  keeping  warm      440 

Tlie  plenteous  bloom,  that  no  rough  blast  may  sweep 

His  garlands  from  the  boughs.    Again,  as  oft 

As  the  sun  peeps,  and  vernal  airs  breathe  mild, 

The  fence  withdrawn,  he  gives  them  ev'ry  beam, 

And  spreads  his  hopes  before  the  blaze  of  day.        445 

To  raise  the  prickly  and  green-coated  gourd, 
So  grateful  to  the  palate,  and  when  rare 
So  coveted,  else  base  and  disesteem'd— 
Food  for  the  vulgar  merely — is  an  art 
That  toiling  ages  have  but  just  matur'd,  450 

And  at  this  moment  unessay'd  in  song. 
Yet  gnats  have  had,  and  frogs  and  mice,  long  since. 
Their  eulogy  ;  those  sang  the  Mantuan  bard, 
And  these  the  Grecian,  in  ennobling  strains ; 
And  in  thy  numbers,  Philips,  shines  for  aye  455 

The  solitary  shilling.     Pardon,  then. 
Ye  sage  dispensers  of  poetick  fame, 
Th'  ambition  of  one  meaner  far,  whose  pow'rs, 
Presuming  an  attempt  not  less  sublime, 
Pant  for  the  praise  of  dressing  to  the  taste  460 

Of  critick  appetite,  no  sordid  fare, 
A  cucumber,  while  costly  yet  and  scarce. 

The  stable  yields  a  stercoraceous  heap, 

*  Miraturque  novos  fructus  et  non  sua  poma.     Viirg, 


THE  GARDEN.  65 

Impregnated  with  quick  fermenting  salts, 
And  potent  to  resist  the  freezing  blast :  465 

For  ere  the  beech  and  elm  have  cast  their  leaf 
Deciduous,  when  now  November  dark 
Checks  vegetation  in  the  torpid  plant 
Expos'd  to  his  cold  breath,  the  task  begins. 
Warily,  therefore,  and  with  prudent  heed,  470 

Ho  seeks  a  favour'd  spot ;  that  where  he  builds 
Th'  agglomerated  pile  his  frame  may  front 
The  sun's  meridian  disk,  and  at  the  back 
Enjoy  close  shelter,  wall,  or  reeds,  or  hedge 
Impervious  to  the  wind.     First  he  bids  spread         475 
Dry  fern  or  litter'd  hay,  that  may  imbibe 
Th'  ascending  damps ;  then  leisurely  impose, 
And  lightly  shaking  it  with  agile  hand 
From  the  full  fork,  the  saturated  straw. 
What  longest  binds  the  closest  forms  secure  480 

The  shapely  side,  that  as  it  rises  takes. 
By  just  degrees,  an  overhanging  breath, 
Shelt'ring  the  base  with  its  projected  eaves ; 
Th'  uplifted  frame,  compact  at  ev'ry  joint, 
And  overlaid  with  clear  translucent  glass,  485 

He  settles  next  upon  the  sloping  mount, 
Whose  sharp  declivity  shoots  off  secure 
From  the  dash'd  pane  the  deluge  as  it  falls. 
He  shuts  it  close,  and  the  first  labour  ends. 
Thrice  must  the  voluble  and  restless  Earth  490 

Spin  round  uponiier  axle,  ere  the  warmth. 
Slow  gath'ring  in  the  midst,  through  the  square  mass 
Diflus'd,  attain  the  surface  ;  when,  behold  ! 
A  pestilent  and  most  corrosive  stream. 
Like  a  gross  fog  Bceotian,  rising  fast,  495 

And  fast  condens'd  upon  the  dewy  sash. 
Asks  egress  ?  which  obtain'd,  the  overcharg'd 
And  drench'd  conservatory  breathes  abroad, 
[n  volumes  wheeling  slow  the  vapour  dank ; 
And,  purified,  rejoices  to  have  lost  500 

Its  foul  inhabitant.     But  to  assuage 
6* 


6C    .  THE  TASK. 

Th'  impatient  fervour,  which  it  first  conceives 

Within  its  reeking  bosom,  threat'ning  death 

To  his  young  hopes,  requires  discreet  delay. 

Experience,  slow  preceptress,  teaching  oft  505 

The  way  to  glory  by  miscarriage  foul, 

Must  prompt  him,  and  admonish  how  to  catch 

Th'  auspicious  moment,  when  the  tempered  heat, 

Friendly  to  vital  motion,  may  afford 

Soft  fomentation,  and  invite  the  seed.  510 

The  seed,  selected  wisely,  plump,  and  smooth, 

And  glossy,  he  commits  to  pots  of  size 

Diminutive,  well  fiU'd  with  well-prepar'd 

And  fruitful  soil,  that  has  been  treasur'd  long, 

And  drank  no  moisture  from  the  dripping  clouds.   515 

These  on  the  warm  and  genial  earth  that  hides 

The  smoking  manure,  and  o'erspreads  it  all, 

He  places  lightly,  and,  as  time  subdues 

The  rage  of  fermentation,  plunges  deep 

In  the  soft  medium,  till  they  stand  immers'd.  520 

Then  rise  the  tender  germs,  upstarting  quick 

And  spreading  wide  their  spongy  lobes  ;  at  first 

Pale,  wan,  and  livid ;  but  assuming  soon, 

If  fann'd  by  balmy  and  nutritious  air, 

Strain'd  through  the  friendly  mats,  a  vivid  green.  525 

Two  leaves  produc'd,  two  rough  indented  loaves. 

Cautious  he  pinches  from  the  second  stalk 

A  pimple  that  portends  a  future  sprout. 

And  interdicts  its  growth.     Thence  straight  succeed 

The  branches,  sturdy  to  his  utmost  wish  ;  530 

Prolifick  all,  and  harbingers  of  more. 

The  crowded  roots  demand  enlargement  now. 

And  transplantation  in  an  ampler  space. 

Indulg'd  in  what  they  wish,  they  soon  supply 

Large  foliage,  overshadowing  golden  flow'rs,  535 

Blown  on  the  summit  o£  the  apparent  fruit. 

These  have  their  sexes  ;  and  when  summer  shines 

The  bee  transports  the  fertilizing  meal 

From  flow'r  to  flow'r,  and  e'en  the  breathing  air 


THE  GARDEN.  67 

Wafts  the  rich  prize  to  its  appointed  use.  540 

Not  so  when  winter  scowls.  Assistant  Art 
Then  acts  in  Nature's  office,  brings  to  pass 
The  glad  espousals,  and  ensures  the  crop. 

Grudge  not,  ye  rich,  (since  Luxury  must  have 
His  dainties,  and  the  World's  more  num'rous  half  545 
Lives  by  contriving  delicates  for  you,) 
Grudge  not  the  cost.     Ye  little  know  the  cares 
The  vigilance,  the  labour,  and  the  skill, 
That  day  and  night  are  exercis'd,  and  hang 
Upon  the  ticklish  balance  of  suspense,  550 

That  ye  may  garnish  your  profuse  regales 
With  summer  fruits  brought  forth  by  wintry  sung. 
Ten  thousand  dangers  lie  in  wait  to  thwart 
The  process.     Heat,  and  cold,  and  wind,  and  steam, 
Moisture  and   drought,  mice,  worms,  and  swarming 
flies,  555 

Minute  as  dust,  and  numberless,  oft  work 
Dire  disappointment,  that  admits  no  cure, 
And  which  no  care  can  obviate.     It  were  long, 
Too  long,  to  tell  th'  expedients  and  the  shifts, 
Which  he  that  fights  a  season  so  severe  560 

Devises  while  he  guards  his  tender  trust ; 
And  oft  at  last  in  vain.     The  learn'd  and  wise 
Sarcastick  would  exclaim,  and  judge  the  song 
Cold  as  its  theme,  and  like  its  theme  the  fruit 
Of  too  much  labour,  worthless  when  produc'd.        566 

Who  loves  a  garden  loves  a  green-house  too 
Unconscious  of  a  less  propitious  clime, 
There  blooms  exotick  beauty,  warm  and  snug. 
While  the  winds  whistle  and  the  snows  descend 
The  spiry  myrtle  with  unwith'ring  leaf  570 

Shines  there,  and  flourishes.     The  golden  boast 
Of  Portugal  and  western  India  there. 
The  ruddier  orange,  and  the  paler  lime 
Peep  through  their  polish'd  foliage  at  the  storm. 
And  seem  to  smile  at  what  they  need  not  fear.        575 
The  amomum  there  with  intermingling  flow'rs 


68  THE  TASK. 

And  cherries  hangs  her  twigrs.     Geranium  boasts 
Her  crimson  honours  ;  and  the  spangled  beau, 
Ficoides  glitters  bright  the  winter  long. 
All  plants  of  ev'ry  leaf,  that  can  endure  580 

The  winter's  frown,  if  screen'd  from  his  shrewd  bite, 
Live  there,  and  prosper.     Those  Ausonia  claims, 
Levantine  regions  these  ;  th'  Azores  send 
Their  jessamine,  her  jessamine  remote 
Caffraria  :  foreigners  from  many  lands,  585 

They  form  one  social  shade,  as  if  conven'd 
By  magick  sumntbns  of  th'  Orphean  lyre. 
\\  Yet  just  arrangement,  rarely  brought  to  pass 

But  by  a  master's  hand,  disposing  well 
The  gay  diversities  of  leaf  and  flow'r,  590 

Must  lend  its  aid  t'  illustrate  all  their  charms, 
And  dress  the  regular  yet  various  scene. 
Plant  behind  plant  aspiring,  in  the  van 
The  dwarfish,  in  the  rear  retir'd,  but  still 
Sublime  above  the  rest,  the  statelier  stand.  595 

So  once  were  rang'd  the  sons  of  ancient  Rome, 
A  noble  show  !  while  Roscius  trod  the  stage ; 
And  so,  while  Garrick,  as  renown'd  as  he, 
The  sons  of  Albion ;  fearing  each  to  lose 
Some  note  of  Nature's  musick  from  his  lips,  600 

And  covetous  of  Shakspeare's  beauty,  seen 
In  ev'ry  flash  of  his  far-beaming  eye. 
Nor  taste  alone  and  well-contriv'd  display 
Suffice  to  give  the  marshall'd  ranks  the  grace 
Of  their  complete  effect.     Much  yet  remains  605 

Unsung,  and  many  cares  are  yet  behind, 
A.nd  more  laborious  ;  cares  on  which  depend 
Their  vigour,  injur'd  soon,  not  soon  restor'd. 
The  soil  must  be  renew'd,  which  often  wash'd 
Loses  its  treasure  of  salubrious  salts,  610 

And  disappoints  the  roots ;  the  slender  roots 
Close  interwoven,  where  they  meet  the  vase, 
Must  smooth  be  shorn  away  ;  the  sapless  branchi 
Must  fly  loeforc  the  knife  ;  the  withered  leaf 


THE  GARDEN.  69 

Must  be  delach'd,  and  where  it  strews  the  flocir       615 
Swept  witli  a  woman's  neatness,  breeding  else 
Contagion  and  disseminating  death. 
Discharge  but  these  kind  offices,  (and  who 
Would  spare,  that  loves  them,  offices  like  these  ?) 
Well  they  repay  the  toil.     The  sight  is  pleased,     620 
^The  scent  regal'd,  each  odorirrous  leaf, 
SEach  op'ning  blossom,  freely  breathes  abroad 
/  Its  gratitude,  and  thanks  him  with  its  sweets. 
So  manifold,  all  pleasing  in  their  kind, 
All  healthful,  are  th'  employs  of  rural  life.  625 

Reiterated  as  the  wheel  of  time 
Runs  round ;  still  ending,  and  beginning  stilL 
Nor  are  these  all.     To  deck  the  shapely  Knoll 
That  softly  swell'd  and  gayly  dress'd  appears 
A  flow'ry  island,  from  the  dark  green  lawn  630 

Emerging,  must  be  deem'd  a  labour  due 
To  no  mean  hand,  and  asks  the  touch  of  taste. 
Here  also  grateful  mixture  of  well-match'd 
And  sorted  hues,  (each  giving  each  relief, 
And  by  contrasted  beauty  shining  more,)  635 

Is  needful.     Strength  may  wield  the  ponderous  spade, 
May  turn  the  clod,  and  wheel  the  compost  home ; 
But  elegance,  chief  grace  the  garden  shows, 
And  most  attractive,  is  the  fair  result 
Of  thought,  the  creature  of  a  polish'd  mind.  640 

Without  it  all  is  Gothick  as  the  scene 
To  which  th'  insipid  citizen  resorts 
Near  yonder  heath  ;  where  industry  mispent, 
But  proud  of  his  uncouth,  ill-chosen  task, 
Has  made  a  Heav'n  on  Earth ;  with  suns  and  moons 
Of  close-ramm'd  stones  has  charg'd  th'  encumber'd 
soil,  646 

And  fairly  laid  the  zodiack  in  the  dust. 
He,  therefore,  who  would  see  his  flow'rs  dispos'd 
Sightly  and  in  just  order,  ere  he  gives 
The  beds  the'^t^usted  treasure  of  their  seeds,  650 

Forecasts  the  future  whole ;  that,  wlien  the  sceno 


70  HE  TASK. 

Shall  break  into  its  preconcciv'd  display, 
Eacli  for  itself,  and  all  as  with  one  voice 
Conspiring,  may  attest  his  bright  design, 
Nor  even  then  dismissing  as  perform'd,  655 

His  pleasant  work,  may  he  suppose  it  done. 
Few  self-supported  flow'rs  endure  the  wind 
Uninjur'd,  but  expect  the  upholding  aid 
Of  the  smooth  shaven  prop,  and,  neatly  tied. 
Arc  wedded  thus,  like  beauty  to  old  age,  660 

For  int'rest  sake,  the  living  to  the  dead. 
Some  clothe  the  soil  that  feeds  them,  far  diffus'd 
,  .And  lowly  creeping,  modest  and  yet  fair, 
tike  virtue,  thriving  most  where  little  seen 
Some  more  aspiring  catch  the  neighbour  shrub       665 
With  clasping  tendrils,  and  invest  his  branch, 
Else  unadorn'd,  with  many  a  gay  festoon 
And  fragrant  chaplet,  recompensing  well 
The  strength  they  borrow  with  the  grace  they  lend. 
All  hate  the  rank  society  of  weeds,  670 

Noisome,  and  ever  greedy  to  exhaust 
Th'  impov'rish'd  earth  ;  an  overbearing  race, 
That,  like  the  multitude  made  faction  mad,' 
Disturb  good  order,  and  degrade  true  worth. 

O  blest  seclusion  from  a  jarring  world,  675 

Which  he,  thus  occupied,  enjoys !  Retreat 
Cannot  indeed  to  guilty  man  restore 
Lost  innocence,  or  cancel  follies  past ; 
But  it  has  peace,  and  much  secures  the  mind 
From  all  assaults  of  evil ;  proving  still  680 

A  faithful  barrier,  not  o'erleap'd  with  ease 
By  vicious  Custom,  raging  uncontroU'd 
Abroad,  and  desolating  publick  life, 
When  fierce  Temptation,  seconded  within 
By  traitor  Appetite,  and  arm'd  with  darts  685 

Tern  per 'd  in  Hell,  invades  the  throbbing  breast, 
To  combat  may  be  glorious,  and  success 
Perhaps  may  crown  us  ;  but  to  fly  is  safeT 
Had  1  the  choice  of  sublunary  good. 


THE  GARDEN.  71 

What  covud  1  wish,  that  I  possess  not  here  ?  690 

Health,  leisure,  means  t'  improve  it,  friendship,  i^eace, 
.  No  loose  or  wanton,  though  a  wand'ring  muse, 
^And  constant  occupation  without  care. 
Thus  blest,  I  draw  a  picture  of  that  bliss  j 
Hopeless,  indeed,  that  dissipated  minds,  695 

And  profligate  abusers  of  a  world 
Created  fair  so  much  in  vain  for  them, 
Should  seek  the  guiltless  joys  that  I  describe, 
Allur'd  by  my  report :  but  sure  no  less 
That  self-condemn 'd  they  must  neglect  the  prize,  700 
And  what  they  will  not  taste  must  yet  approve. 
What  we  admire  we  praise  ;  and  when  we  praise 
Advance  it  into  notice,  that,  its  worth 
Acknowledg'd,  others  may  admire  it  too. 
I  therefore  recommend,  though  at  the  risk  705 

Of  popular  disgust,  yet  boldly  still. 
The  cause  of  piety  and  sacred  truth. 
And  virtue,  and  those  scenes  which  God  ordain'd 
Should  best  secure  them,  and  promote  them  most; 
Scenes  that  I  love,  and  with  regret  perceive  710 

Forsaken,  or  through  folly  not  enjoy 'd. 
Ture  is  the  nymph,  though  lib'ral  of  her  smiles, 
And  chaste,  though  unconfin'd,  whom  I  extol. 
Not  as  the  prince  in  Shushan,  when  he  call'd, 
Vain-glorious  of  her  charms,  his  Vashti  forth,         715 
To  grace  the  full  pavilion.     His  desiga 
Was  but  to  boast  his  own  peculiar  good, 
Which  all  might  view  with  envy,  none  partake. 
My  charmer  is  not  mine  alone  ;  my  sweets, 
And  she  that  sweetens  all  my  bitters  too,  720 

Nature,  enchanting  Nature,  in  whose  form 
And  lineaments  divine  I  trace  a  hand 
That  errs  not,  and  find  raptures  still  renow'd, 
Is  free  to  all  men — universal  prize. 
Strange  that  so  fair  a  creature  should  yet  want       725 
Admirers,  and  be  des!dn'd  to  divide 
With  moaner  objects  e'en  the  few  she  finds  I 


72  THE  TASK. 

Stripp'd  of  her  ornaments,  her  leaves  and  flow'w, 

^e  loses  all  her  influence.     Cities  then 

Attract  us,  and  neglected  Nature  pines    ^y  780 

Abandon'd  as  unworthy  of  our  love. 

But  are  not  wholesome  airs,  though  unperfum'd 

By  roses  ;  and  clear  suns,  though  scarcely  felt  ^ 

And  groves,  if  unharmonious,  yet  secure 

From  clamour,  and  whose  very  silence  charms  j      735 

To  be  preferr'd  to  snroke,  to  the  eclipse, 

That  metropolitan  volcanoes  make, 

Whose  Stygian  throats  breathe  darkness  all  day  long  ; 

And  to  the  stir  of  Commerce,  driving  slow, 

And  thund'rmg  loud,  with  his  ten  thousand  wheels .' 

They  would  be,  were  not  madness  in  the  head,       741 

And  folly  in  the  heart ;  were  England  now, 

What  England  was,  plain,  hospitable,  kind. 

And  undebauch'd.     But  we  have  bid  farewell 

To  all  the  virtues  of  those  better  days,  745 

And  all  their  honest  pleasures.     Mansions  once 

Knew  their  own  masters  ;  and  laborious  hinds, 

Who  had  surviv'd  the  father,  serv'd  the  son. 

Now,  the  legitimate  and  rightful  lord 

Is  but  a  transient  guest,  newly  arriv'd,  750 

And  soon  to  be  supplanted.     He  that  saw 

His  patrimonial  timber  cast  its  leaf. 

Sells  the  last  scantling,  and  transfers  the  price 

To  some  shrewd  sharper,  ere  it  buds  again. 

.Estates  ait  landscapes,  gaz'd  upon  a  while,  755 

*  Then  advertis'd,  and  auctioneered  away. 
The  country  starves,  and  they  that  feed  th*  o*ercharg*d 
And  surfeited  lewd  town  with  her  fair  d'^es, 
By  a  just  judgment  strip  and  starve  Viiemselves. 
The  wings  that  waft  our  riches  out  of  sight,  760 

Grow  on  the  gamester's  elbows,  end  the  alert 
And  nimble  motion  of  those  restless  joints, 
That  never  tire,  soon  fans  them  all  iway. 
Improvement,  too,  the  idol  of  the  a  re, 
Is  fed  with  many  a  victim.     Lo,  he  jomes  !  765 


THE  GARDEN.  73 

Th*  omnipotent  magician,  Bi;o\vn,  appears ! 
Down  falls  the  venerable  pile,  th'  abode 
Of  our  forefathers — a  grave  whisker'd  race, 
But  tasteless.     Springs  a  palace  in  its  stead, 
But  in  a  distant  spot ;  where  more  exposed  770 

It  may  enjoy  th'  advantage  of  the  north, 
And  aguish  east,  till  time  shall  have  transform'd 
Those  naked^acres  to  a  shelt'ring  grove. 
He  speaks.  V^The  lake  in  front  becomes  a  lawn ; 
Woods  vanish,  hills  subside,  and  valleys  rise  775 

And  streanas,  as  if  created  for  his  use, 
Pursue  the  track  of  his  directing  wand, 
Sinuous  or  straight,  now  rapid  and  now  slow. 
Now  murm'ring  soft,  now  roaring  in  cascades-;;^- 
E'en  as  he  bids  !  Th'  enraptur'd  owner  smiles.         780 
*Tis  finish'd,  and  yet,  finish 'd  as.it  seems, 
Still  wants  a  grace,  the  loveliest  it  could  show, 
A  mine  to  satisfy  th'  enormous  cost. 
Drain'd  to  the  last  poor  item  of  his  wealth, 
He  sighs,  departs,  and  leaves  th'  accomplish'd  plan  785 
That  ho  has  touch'd,  retouch'd,  many  a  long  day 
Labour'd,  and  many  a  night  pursu'd  in  dreams, 
Just  when  it  meets  his  hopes,  and  proves  the  Heav'n 
He  wanted,  for  a  wealthier  to  enjoy  ! 
And  now  perhaps  the  glorious  hour  is  come,  790 

When,  having  no  stake  left,  no  pledge  t'  endear, 
Her  int'rests,  or  that  gives  her  sacred  cause 
A  moment's  operation  on  his  love. 
He  burns  with  most  intense  and  flagrant  zeal 
To  serve  his  country.     Ministerial  grace  795 

Deals  him  out  money  from  the  publick  chest ; 
Or,  if  that  mine  be  shut,  some  private  purse 
Supplies  his  need  with  a  usurious  loan, 
To  be  refunded  duly,  when  his  vote 
Well-manag'd  shall  have  earn'd  its  worthy  price.    800 
O  innocent,  compar'd  with  arts  like  these, 
Crape,  and  cock'd  pistol,  and  the  whistling  ball 
Sent  through  the  trav'ller's  temples  '  He  that  finds 
Vol.  H.  7 


74  THE  TASK. 

One  drop  of  Heav'n's  swteet  mercy  m  his  c  / 

Can  dig,  beg,  rot,  and  perish,  well  content^  805 

So  he  may"  wrap  himself  In  honest  rags 

At  his  last  gasp  ;  but  could  not  for  a  world 

Fish  up  his  dirty  and  dependent  bread 

From  pools  and  ditches  of  the  comraoni;7eal^. 

Sordid  and  sick'ning  at  his  own  succew.  tlHO 

Ambition,  avarice,  penury,  incurred 
By  endless  riot,  vanity,  the  lust 
Of  pleasure  and  variety,  despatch 

*As  duly  as  the  swallows  disappear, 
The  world  of  wandering  knights  and  squires  to  town 
London  ingulfs  them  all !  The  shark  is  there,         816 
And  the  shark's  prey  ;  the  spendthrift,  and  the  leech 
That  sucks  him  •  there  the  sycophant,  and  he 
Who,  with  bareheaded  and  obsequious  bows, 
Begs  a  warm  office,  doom'd  to  a  cold  jail  820 

And  groat  per  diem,  if  his  patron  frown. 
The  levee  swarms,  as  if  in  golden  pomp 
Were  character'd  on  ev'ry  statesman's  door, 
"  Batter 'd  and  bankrupt  fortunes  mended  here,* 
These  are  the  charms  that  sully  and  eclipse  825 

The  charms  of  nature.     'Tis  the  cruel  gripe, 
That  lean,  hard-handed  Poverty  inflicts, 

•  The  hope  of  better  things,  the  chance  to  win, 
The  wish  to  shine,  the  thirst  to  be  amus'd, 
That  at  the  sound  of  Winter's  hoary  wing  830 

Unpeople  all  our  countries  of  such  herds 
Of  flutt'ring,  loit'ring,  cringing,  begging,  loose, 
And  wanton  vagrants,  as  make  London,  vast 
And  boundless  as  it  is,  a  crowded  coop. 

O  thou  resort  and  mart  of  all  the  earth,  835 

Checker'd  with  all  complexions  of  mankind, 
And  spotted  with  all  crimes ;  in  whom  I  see 
Much  that  I  love,  and  more  that  I  admire, 
And  all  that  I  abhor  ;  thou  freckled  fair, 
That  pleasest  and  yet  shock'st  me  !  I  can  la'io:h;     840 
And  I  can  weep,  can  liope  and  can  despond 


i 


THE  GARDEN.  7C 

fetl  wrath  and  pity,  when  I  think  on  thee !  ^_ 

Ten  righteous  would  have  sav'd  a  city  once, 
And  thou  haat  many  righteous. — Well  for  thee— • 
•That  salt  preserves  thee  ;  more  corrupted  else,       845 
And  therefore  more  obnoxious,  at  this  hour. 
Than  Sodom  in  her  day  had  pow'r  to  be,, 
^<ir  whom  God  heard  bis  Abraham  plead  in  i 


THE  TASK. 


THE  WINTER  EVENING 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  FOURTH  BOOK. 

rh»  post  comes  in — The  newspaper  is  read — The  World  content* 
plated  at  a  distance — Address  to  Winter — The  rural  amusements 
of  a  winter  evening  compared  with  the  fashionable  ones — Ad- 
dress to  evening — A  brown  study — Fall  of  snow  in  the  evening — 
The  wanner — A  poor  family  piece — The  rural  thief— Publick 
houses—The  multitude  of  them  censured — The  farmer's  daugli- 
-ter:  what  she  was, — what  she  is — The  simplicity  of  country 
manners  almost  lost — Causes  of  the  change — Desertion  of  the 
country  by  the  rich— Neglect  of  the  magistrates— The  militia  prin- 
cipally in  fault — The  new  recruit  and  his  transformation — Re- 
flection on  bodies  corporate — The  love  of  rural  objects  natural  to 
all,  and  never  to  bo  totally  extinguished. 


HARK  !  'tis  the  twanging  horn  o'er  yonder  bridge, 
That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 
Bestrides  the  wintry  flood ;  in  which  the  moon 
Soes  ftfer  unwrinl^ed  face  reflected  bright : — 
He  comes,  the  herald  of  a  noisy  world,  h 

Willi  spatter'd  boots,  strapp'd  waist,  and  frozen  lockB, 
News  from  all  nations  lumb'ring  at  his  back. 
Tnie^lo  his  charge,  the  close-pack'd  load  behind, 
\('A  (rareless  what  he  brings,  his  one  concern 
Is  t»  conduct  it  to  the  destin'd  inn  ;  10 

Ami   having  dropp'd  th'  cx])e<;te<!  bag,  pass  on. 
[lo  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch. 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  77 

Cold  and  yet  cheerful :  messenger  of  grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some ; 
To  him  IndifT'rent  whether  grief  or  joy.  15 

Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  fall  of  stocks, 
Birtha,  deaths,  and  marriages,  epistles  wet 
With  tears,  that  trickled  down  the  writer's  cneeki 
Fast  as  the  periods  from  his  fluent  quill. 
Or  charg'd  with  am'rous  sighs  of  absent  S304118,      -20 
Or  nymphs  responsive,  equally  affect 
His  horse  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 
But  O,  th'  important  budget !  usher'd  in 
With  such  heart-shaking  musick,  who  can  say 
What  are  its  tidings  ?  have  our  troops  awak'd  ?        2S 
Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  drugg'd, 
Snore  to  the  murmurs  of  th'  Atlantick  wave 
Is  India  free  ?  and  does  she  wear  her  plum'd 
And  jewcl'd  turban  with  a  smile  of  peace, 
Or  do  we  grind  her  still  ?  The  grand  debate,  30 

The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply. 
The  logick,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit, 
And  the  loud  laugh — I  long  to  know  them  all ; 
I  burn  to  set  th'  imprison'd  wranglers  free, 
And  give  them  voice  and  utt'rance  once  again.         35 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 
And,  while  the  bubbling  and  loud-hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups, 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each,  40 

So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  ev'ning  in. 
Not  such  his  ev'ning,  who  with  shining  face 
Sweats  in  the  crowded  theatre,  and,  squeez'd 
And  bor'd  with  elbow  points  through  both  his  sides, 
Outscolds  the  ranting  actor  on  the  stage  :  45 

Nor  his,  who  patient  stands  till  his  feet  throb. 
And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  breath 
Of  patriots,  bursting  with  heroick  rage, 
Or  placemen,  all  tranquillity  and  smiles^ 
This  folio  of  four  pages  happy  work  I  60 


78  THE  TASK 

Which  not  e'en  criticks  criticise  ;  that  lioidfl 
Inquisitive  attention,  while  I  read. 
Fast  bound  in  chains  of  silence,  which  the  fair, 
Though  eloquent  themselves,  yet  fear  to  break  ; 
What  is  it,  but  a  map  of  busy  life,  55 

Its  fluctuations,  and  its  vast  concerns  ? 
Here  runs  the  mountainous  and  craggy  ridge, 
That  tempts  Ambition.     On  the  summit  see 
The  seals  of  office  glitter  in  his  eyes  ; 
He  climbs,  he  pants,  he  grasps  them  !  At  his  heels   60 
Close  at  his  heels,  a  demagogue  ascends, 
And  with  a  dext'rous  jerk  soon  twists  him  down, 
And  wins  them,  but  to  lose  them  in  his  turn. 
Here  rills  of  oily  eloquence,  in  soft 
Meanders  lubricate  the  course  they  take  ;  05 

The  modest  speaker  is  asham'd  and  griev'd, 
T'  engross  a  moment's  notice  ;  and  yet  begs, 
Begs  a  propitious  ear  for  his  poor  thoughts, 
However  trivial,  all  that  he  conceives. 
Sweet  bashfulness  ;  it  claims  at  least  this  praise :     70 
The  dearth  of  information  and  good  sense 
That  it  forete^.ls  us  always  comes  to  pass. 
Cataracts  of  declamation  thnnder  here  ; 
There  forests  of  no  meaning  spread  the  page, 
In  which  all  compiiehension  wanders,  lost ;  75 

While  fields  of  pleasantry  amuse  us  there 
With  merry  descants  on  a  nation's  woes. 
The  rest  appears  a  wilderness  of  strange 
*But  gay  confusion ;  roses  for  the  cheeks, 
And  lilies  for  the  brows  of  faded  age,  80 

Teeth  for  the  toothless,  ringlets  for  the  bald, 
Heav'n,  earth,  and  ocean,  plundered  of  their  sweets, 
Nectareous  essences,  Olympian  dews. 
Sermons,  and  city  feasts,  and  fav'rite  airs, 
Ethereal  journeys,  submarine  exploits,  85 

And  Katterfelto,  with  his  hair  on  end 
At  his  own  wonder's,  wond'ring  for  his  bread. 
*Tis  pleasant,  thYough  the  loopholes  of  retreat, 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  79 

To  peep  at  such  a  world  ;  to  see  the  stir 
Of  th«i  great  Babel,  and  not  feel  the  crowd  j  90  * 

To  hear  the  roar  she  sends  through  all  her  gates 
At  a  safe  distance,  where  the  dying  sound 
Falls  d  soft  murmur  on  th'  uninjur'd  ear. 
Thus  sitting,  and  surveying  thus  at  ease 
The  globe  and  its  concerns,  I  seem  advanced  95 

To  some  secure  and  more  than  mortal  height, 
That  liberates  and  exempts  me  from  them  all. 
It  turns  submitted  to  my  view,  turns  round 
With  all  its  generations  ;  I  behold 
The  tumult,  and  am  still.     The  sound  of  war  100 

Has  lost  its  terrours  ere  it  reaches  me  ; 
Grieves,  but  alarms  me  not.     I  mourn  the  pride 
•  And  av'rice  that  make  man  a  wolf  to  man  ; 
Hear  the  faint  echo  of  those  brazen  throats, 

■By  wiiich  he  speaks  the  language  of  his  heart,        105 
-    And  sigh,  but  never  tremble  at  the  sound. 

>  He  travels  and  expatiates,  as  the  bee 
From  flow'r  to  flow'r,  so  he  from  land  to  land ; 
The  manners,  customs,  policy,  of  all 
Pay  contribution  to  the  store  he  gleans;  110 

He  sucks  intelligence  in  ev'ry  clime, 
And  spreads  the  honey  of  his  deep  research 
At  his  return — a  rich  repast  for  me. 

,'He  travels,  and  I  too.     I  tread  his  deck, 

:  Ascend  his  topmast  through  his  peering  eyes  llh 

Discover  countries,  with  a  kindred  heart 
Suffer  his  woes,  and  share  in  his  escapes ; 
While  fancy,  like  the  finger  of  a  clock. 
Runs  the  great  circuit,  and  is  still  at  home 

O  Winter,  ruler  of  th'  inverted  year,  120 

Thy  scatter 'd  hair  with  sleet  like  ashes  fill'd,  ^ 

I  Thy  breath  congeal'd  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheeks 
Fring'd  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other  snows 
iThan  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapp'd  in  clouds, 
'A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy  throne  125 

A  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels, 


I 

80  THE  TASK.  | 

But  urg'd  by  storms  along  its  slipp'ry  way, 
*  I  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem'st. 
And  dreaded  as  thou  art !  Thou  hold'st  the  sun 
A  pris'ner  in  the  yet  undawning  east,  130 

Short'ning  his  journey  between  morn  and  noon, 
And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 
Down  to  the  rosy  west :  but  kindly  still      • 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease,  133 

And  gath'ring,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 
The  family  dispers'd,  and  fixing  thought. 
Not  less  dispers'd  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 
I  crown  thee  king  of  intimate  delights. 
Fireside  enjoyments,  horneborn  happiness,  140 

And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof  « 

Of  undisturb'd  Retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long,  uninterrupted  ev'ning  know. 
No  rattling  wheels  stop  short  before  these  gates , 
No  powder'd  pert  proficient  in  the  art  145 

Of  sounding  an  alarm,  assaults  these  doors 
Till  the  street  rings  ;  no  stationary  steeds 
Cough  their  own  knell,  while,  heedless  of  the  soand| 
The  silent  circle  fan  themselves,  and  quake  ; 
But  here  the  needle  plies  its  busy  task,  150 

The  pattern  grows,  the  well-depicted  flow'r, 
Wrought  patiently  into  the  snowy  lawn. 
Unfolds  its  bosom  ;  buds,  and  leaves,  and  sprigs, 
And  curling  tendrils,  gracefully  dispos'd, 
Follow  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair  ;  155 

A  wreath,  that  cannot  fade,  or  flow'r s  that  blow  . 

With  most  success  whsn  all  besides  decay. 
The  poet's  or  historian's  page  by  one 
Made  vocal  for  th'  amusement  of  the  rest :  159 

The  sprightly  lyre,  whose  treasure  of  sweet  sounds 
The  touch  from  many  a  tremblmg  chord  shakes  out : 
And  the  clear  voice  symphonious,  yet  distinct. 
And  in  the  charming  strife  triumphant  stilly 
Beguile  the  night,  and  set  a  keener  edge 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  8J 

On  female  industry  :  the  threaded  steel  165 

Flies  swiftly,  and  unfelt  the  task  proceeds. 
The  volume  clos'd,  the  customary  rites 
Of  the  last  meal  commence.     A  Roman  meal: 
Such  as  the  mistress  of  the  world  once  found 
Delicious,  when  her  patriots  of  high  note,  170 

Perhaps  by  moonhght,  at  their  humble  doors, 
And  under  an  old  oak's  domestick  shade, 
Enjoy'd,  spare  feast !  a  radish  and  an  egg. 
Discourse  ensues,  not  trivial,  yet  not  d«ll, 
Nor  such  as  with  a  frown  forbids  the  play  175 

Of  fancy,  or  proscribes  the  sound  of  mirth : 
Nor  do  we  madly,  like  an  impious  World, 
Who  deem  religion  frenzy,  and  the  God 
That  made  them  an  intruder  on  their  joys, 
Start  at  his  awful  name,  or  deem  his  praise  180 

A  jarl'ing  note.     Themes  of  a  graver  tone 
Exciting  oft  our  gratitude  and  love. 
While  we  retrace  with  Mem'ry's  pointing  wand, 
That  calls  the  past  to  our  exact  review. 
The  dangers  we  have  'scaped,  the  broken  snare,     185 
The  disappointed  foe,  deliv'rance  found 
Unlook'd  for,  life  preserv'd,  and  peace  restor*d— » 
Fruits  of  omnipotent  eternal  love. 
O  ev'nings  worthy  of  the  gods!  exclaim'd 
The  Sabine  bard.     O  ev'nings,  I  reply,  190 

More  to  be  priz'd  and  coveted  than  yours. 
As  more  illumin'd,  and  with  nobler  truths, 
That  I,  and  mine,  and  those  we  love,  enjoy. 

Is  Winter  hideous  in  a  garb  like  this  ? 
Needs  he  the  tra^ick  fur,  the  smoke  of  lamps,        195 
The  pent-up  breath  of  an  unsav'ry  throng, 
To  tliaw  him  into  feeling,  or  the  smart 
An9" snappish  dialogue,  fhat  flippant  wits 
Call  comedy,  to  prompt  him  with  a  smile  ? 
The  self-complacent  actor,  when  he  views  200 

(Stealing  a  sidelonf^  glance  at  a  full  house) 
The  slope  of  iaces,  from  the  floor  to  th'  roof 


82  THE  TASK. 

(As  if  one  master  spring  controll'd  them  all,) 

Relax 'd  into  a  universal  fibrin, 

Sees  not  a  count'nance  there,  that  speaks  of  joy     205 

Half  so  refin'd  or  so  sincere  as  ours. 

Cards  were  superfluous  here,  with  all  the  tricks 

That  idleness  has  ever  yet  contriv'd 

To  fill  the  void  of  an  unfurnish'd  brain, 

To  palliate  dulness,  and  give  time  a  shove.  210 

Time,  as  he  passes  us,  has  a  dove's  wing, 

UnsoiPd,  and  swift,  and  of  a  silken  sound  ; 

But  the  world's  Time  is  Time  in  masquerade  ! 

Theirs,  should  I  paint  him,  has  his  pinions  fledg*d, 

With  motley  j)Iumes  ;  and  where  the  peacock  shows 

His  azure  eyes,  is  tinctur'd  black  and  red  216 

With  spots  quadrangular  of  diamond  form, 

Ensanguin'd  hearts,  clubs  typical  of  strife, 

And  spades,  the  emblem  of  untimely  graves. 

What  should  be,  and  what  was  an  hourglass  once,  220 

Becomes  a  dicebox,  and  a  billiard  mace 

Well  does  the  work  of  his  destructive  sithe. 

Thus  deck'd,  he  charms  a  World  whom  Fashion  blinds 

To  his  true  worth,  most  pleas'd  when  idle  most: 

Whose  only  happy,  are  their  idle  hours.  225 

E'en  misses,  at  whose  age  their  mothers  wore 

The  backstring  and  the  bib,  assume  the  dress 

Of  womanhood,  sit  pupils  in  the  school 

Of  card  devoted  Time,  and,  night  by  night, 

Plac'd  at  some  vacant  corner  of  the  board,  230 

Learn  ev'ry  trick,  and  soon  play  all  the  game. 

But  truce  with  censure.     Roving  as  I  rove. 

Where  shall  I  find  an  end,  or  how  proceed  ? 

As  he  that  travels  far  oft  turns  "aside,* 

To  view  some  rugged  rock  or  mould'ring  tow*r,  •  235 

Which  seen,  delights  him  notfj  then  coming  homlr 

Describes  and  prints  it,  that  the  world  may  know 

How  far  he  went  for  what  was  nothing  worth  . 

So  I,  with  brush  in  hand  and  pallet  spread, 

With  colours  mix'd  for  a  far  difTrent  usc^  240 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  83 

Paint  cards,  and  dolls,  and  ev'ry  idle  thing, 
That  Fancy  finds  in  her  excursive  flights. 

Come,  Ev'ning,  once  again,  season  of  peace,  * 
Return,  sweet  Ev'ning,  and  continue  long  ! 
Methinks  I  see  thee  in  the  streaky  west,  245 

With  matron  step  slow-moving,  while  the  Night 
Treads  on  thy  sweeping  train  ;  one  hand  employ'd 
In  letting  fall  the  curtain  of  repose 
On  bird  and  beast,  the  other  charg'd  for  man 
With  sweet  oblivion  of  the  cares  of  day  :  250 

Not  sumptuously  adorn'd,  nor  needing  aid, 
Like  homely-featur'd  Night,  of  clust'ring  gems , 
A  star  or  two,  just  twinkling  on  thy  brow, 
Suffices  thee  ;  save  that  the  moon  is  thine 
No  less  than  hers,  not  worn  indeed  on  high  255 

With  ostentatious  pageantry,  but  set 
With  modest  grandeur  in  thy  purple  zone, 
Resplendent  less,  but  of  an  ampler  round. 
Come  then,  and  thou  shalt  find  thy  votary  calm, 
Or  make  me  so.     Composure  is  thy  gift  j  •  260 

And,  whether  I  devote  thy  gentle  hours 
To  books,  to  musick,  or  the  poet's  toil ; 
To  weaving  nets  for  bird-alluring  fruit ; 
Or  tw^ining  silken  threads  round  ivory  reels. 
When  they  command  whom  man  was  born  to  please ; 
I  slight  thee  not,  but  make  thee  welcome  still.        26€ 

Just  when  our  dxaaadnayooms  begin  to  blaze 
With  lights,  by  clear  reflection  multiplied 
From  many  a  mirror,  in  which  he  of  Gath, 
Goliath,  might  have  seen  his  giant  bulk  270 

Whole  without  stooping,  tow'ring  crest  and  all, 
My  pleasures,  too,  begin.     But  me  perhaps 
The  glowing  hearth  may  a^tisfy  awhile 
With  faint  illumination,  that  uplifts 
The  shadows  to  the  ceiling,  there  by  fits  .«»       ^^,Ji75 
Dancing  uncouthly  to  the  quiv'ring  flame, 
Not  undelightful  is  an  hour  to  me 
6o  spent  in  parlour  twilight :  such  a  gloom 


84  THE  TASK 

Suits  well  the  thoughtful  or  unthinking  mind, 
The  mind  contemplative,  with  some  new  theme     280 
Pregnant,  or  indispos'd  alike  to  all. 
Lauffh  ye,  who  boast  your  jjiore  mercurial  pow'rs, 
That  never  feel  a  stupor,  know  no  pause, 
Nor  need  one  ;  I  am  conscious,  and  confess 
Fearless,  a  soul  that  does  not  always  think.  885 

Me  oft  has  Fancy,  ludicrous  and  wild, 
Sooth'd  with  a  waking  dream  of  houses,  tow'rs, 
Trees,  churches,  and  strange  visages,  express'd 
In  the  red  cinders,  while  with  poring  eye 
I  gaz'd,  myself  creating  what  I  saw.  290 

Nor  less  amus'd  have  I  quiescent  watch'd 
The  sooty  films  that  play  upon  the  bars 
Pendulous,  and  foreboding  in  the  view 
Of  superstition,  prophesying  still, 
Though  still  deceiv'd,  some  stranger's  near  approach. 
'Tis  thus  the  understanding  takes  repose  296 

In  indolent  vacuity  of  thought. 
And  sleeps  and  is  refresh'd.    Meanwhile  the  face 
Conceals  the  mood  lethargick  with  a  mask 
Of  deep  deliberation,  as  the  man  300 

Were  task'd  to  his  full  strength,  absorb'd  and  lest 
Thus  oft,  reclin'd  at  ease,  I  lose  an  hour 
At  ev'ning,  till  at  length  the  freezing  blast 
That  sweeps  the  bolted  shutter,  summons  home 
The  recollected  pow'rs  ;  and  snapping  short  305 

The  glassy  threads,  with  wTiichi  the  Fancy  weaves 
Her  brittle  toils,  restores  me  to  myself. 
How  calm  is  my  recess ;  and  how  the  frost, 
Raging  abroad,  and  the  rough  wind,  endear 
The  silence  and  the  warmth  enjoy 'd  within  !  310 

1  saw  the  woods  and  field  sat  close  of  day, 
A  variegated  show  ;  the  iroadows  green, 
-^Though  i^ed  ;  and  the  lands,  where  lately  wav*d 
The  golden  harvest,  of  a  mellow  brown, 
Upturn'd  so  lately  by  the  forceful  share.  315 

I  saw  far  off  the  weedy  fallows  smile 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  85 

With  verdure  not  unprofitable,  graz'd 
By  flocks,  fast  feeding,  and  selecting  each 
His  fav'rite  herb :  while  all  the  leafless  groves 
That  skirt  th'  horizon  wore  a  sable  hue,  32^ 

Scarce  notic'd  in  the  kindred  dusk  of  eve. 
To-morrow  brings  a  change,  a  total  change  : 
Which  even  now,  though  silently  perform 'd, 
And  slowly,  and  by  most  unfelt,  the  face 
Of  universal  nature  undergoes.  325 

Fast  falls  a  fleecy  show'r :  the  downy  flakes 
Descending,  and  with  never-ceasing  lapse, 
Softly  alighting  upon^all  below, 
Assimilate  all  objects.     Earth  receives 
Gladly  the  thick'ning  mantle  ;  and  the  green         330 
And  tender  blade,  that  fear'd  the  chilling  blast, 
Escapes  unhurt  beneath  so  warm  a  veil. 

In  such  a  world,  sb  thorny,  and  where  none 
Finds  happiness  unblighted,  or,  if  found. 
Without  some  thistly  sorrow  at  its  side ;  '  335 

It  seems  the  part  of  wisdom,  and  no  sin 
Against  the  law  of  love,  to  measure  lots 
With  less  distinguish'd  than  ourselves  ;  that  thus 
We  may  with  patience  bear  our  moderate  ills, 
And  sympathize  with  others  suff*'ring  more.  340 

111  fares  the  traveller  now,  and  he  that  stalks 
In  pond'rous  boots  beside  his  reeking  team 
The  wain  goes  heavily,  impeded  sore 
By  congregated  loads  adhering  close 
To  the  clogg'd  wheels ;  and  in  its  sluggish  pace     345 
Noiseless  appears  a  moving  hill  of  snow. 
The  toiling  steeds  expand  the  nostril  wide. 
While  ev'ry  breath,  by  respiration  strong 
Forc'd  downward,  is  consolid|y^d  soon 
Upon  their  jutting  chests.     He,  form'd  to  bear        35© 
The  pelting  brunt  of  the  tempestuous  night, 
With  half  shut  eyes,  and  pucker'd  cheeks,  and  teeth 
i*resented  bare  against  the  storm,  plods  on. 
One  hand  secures  his  hat,  save  when  with  both 

Vo...  II.  8 


86  THE  TASK. 

He  orandishes  his  pliant  length  of  whip,  365 

Resounding  oft,  and  never  heard  in  vain. 
O  happy  J  and  in  my  account  denied 
That  sensibility  of  pain  with  which 
Refinement  is  endu'd,  thrice  happy  thou ! 
Thy  frame,  robust  and  hardy,  feels  indeed  360 

The  piercing  cold,  but  feels  it  unimpair'd. 
The  learn'd  finger  never  need  explore 
Thy  vig'rous  pulse  j  and  the  unheathful  east, 
That  breathes  the  spleen,  and  searches  ev'ry  bone 
Of  the  infirm,  is  wholesome  air  to  thee.  365 

Thy  days  roll  an  exempt  from  household  care  ; 
Thy  wagon  is  thy  wife  ;  and  the  poor  beasts,  ^ 

That  drag  the  dull  companion  to  and  fro. 
Thine  helpless  charge,  dependent  on  thy  care. 
Ah,  treat  them  kindly  ;  rude  as  thou  appear'st,       370 
Yet  ohow  that  thou  hast  mercy  !  which  the  great, 
With  needless  hurry  whirl'd  from  place  to  place. 
Humane  as  they  would  seem,  not  always  show. 
"^HPoor,  yet  industrious,  modest,  quiet,  neat. 
Such  claim  compassion  in  a  night  like  this,  375 

And  have  a  friend  in  ev'ry  feeling  heart. 
Warm'd,  while  it  lasts,  by  labour,  all  day  long 
They  brave  the  season,  and  yet  find  at  eve, 
111  clad,  and  fed  but  sparely,  time  to  cool. 
The  frugal  housewife  trembles  when  she  lights       380 
Her  scanty  stock  of  brushwood  blazing  clear, 
But  dying  soon,  like  all  terrestrial  joys. 
The  few  small  embers  left  she  nurses  well  j 
And,  while  her  infant  race,  with  outspread  hands 
And  crowded  kbees,  sit  cow'ring  o'er  the  sparks,    385 
Retires,  content  to  quake,  so  they  be  warm'd 
The  man  feels  least,  as  n|Dre  inur'd  than  she 
To  winter,  and  the  current  in  his  veins 
More  briskly  mov'd  by  his  severer  toil*, 
Yet  he  too  finds  his  own  distress  in  theirs.  390 

The  taper  soon  extinguish'd,  which  I  saw 
Dangled  along  at  the  cold  finger'o  end 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  87 

Just  when  the  day  declin'd  :  and  the  brown  loaf 
Lodg'd  on  the  shelf  half  eaten  without  sauce 
Of  sav'ry  cheese,  or  butter,  costlier  still ;  395 

Sleep  seems  their  only  refuge  :  for,  alas  I 
Where  penury  is  felt  the  thought  is  chain 'd,  • 
And  sweet  colloquial  pleasures  are  but  few  ! 
With  all  this  thrift  they  thrive  not.    All  the  care, 
Ingenims  Parsimony  takes,  but  just  400 

Saves  the  small  inventory,  bed,  and  stool, 
Skillet,  and  old  carv'd  chest,  from  publick  sale. 
They  live,  and  live  without  extorted  alms 
From  grudging  hands  :  but  other  boast  have  none, 
To  sooth  their  honest  pride,  that  scorns  to  beg,        405 
Nor  comfort  else,  but  in  their  mutual  love. 
I  praise  you  much,  ye  meek  and  patient  pair, 
For  ye  are  worthy  ;  choosing  rather  far 
A  dry  but  independent  crust,  hard  earn*d, 
And  eaten  with  a  sigh,  than  to  endure  410 

The  rugged  frowns  and  insolent  rebuffs 
Of  knaves  in  office,  partial  in  the  work 
Of  distribution  ;  lib'ral  of  their  aid 
To  clam'rous  Importunity  in  rags, 
But  ofttimes  deaf  to  suppliants,  who  would  blush  415 
To  wear  a  tatter'd  garb,  hov/ever  coarse, 
Whom  famine  cannot  reconcile  to  filth : 
These  ask  with  painful  shyness,  and,  refus'd 
Because  deserving,  silently  retire  I 
But  be  ye  of  good  courage  !  Time  itself  420 

Shall  much  befriend  you.    Time  shall  give  increase  ; 
And  all  your  numerous  progeny,  well  train'd, 
But  helpless,  in  few  years  shall  find  their  hands, 
And  labour  toa.     Meanwhile  ye  shall  not  want 
What^  conscious  of  your  viiJues,  we  can  spare,      425 
Nor  what  a  wealthier  than  ourselves  may  send. 
I  mean  the  man,  who,,  when  the  distant  poor 
Need  help,  denies  them  nothing  but  his  name. 
But  poverty  with  most,  who  whimper  forth 
Their  long  complaints,  is  self-inflicted  wo ;  430 


88  THE  TASK. 

The  effect  of  laziness  or  sottish  waste. 
Now  goes  the  nightly  thief  prowUng  alroad 
For  plunder  ;  much  solicitous  how  best 
He  may  compensate  fqr  a  day  of  sloth 
By  work^of  darkness  and  nocturnal  wrong.  435 

Wo  to  the  gard'ner's  pale,  the  farmer's  hedge, 
Plash 'd  neatly,  and  secur'd  with  driven. stakes 
Deep  in  the  loamy  bank.     Uptorn  by  strength, 
Resistless  in  so  bad  a  cause,  but  lame 
To  better  deeds,  he  bundles  up  the  spoil,  440 

»  An  ass's  burden,  and,  when  laden  most 
And  heaviest,  light  of  foot,  steals  fast  away 
Nor  does  the  bordered  hovel  better  guard 
The  well-stack'd  pile  of  riven  logs  and  roots 
From  his  pernicious  force.     Nor  will  he  leave         445  • 
Unwrench'd  the  door,  however  well  secur'd; 
Where  Chanticleer  amidst  his  haram  sleeps 
In  unsuspecting  pomp.     Twitch'd  from  the  perch, 
He  gives  the  princely  bird,  with  all  his  wives. 
To  his  voracious  bag,  struggling  in  vain,  450 

And  loudly  wond'ring  at  the  sudden  change. 
Nor  this  to  feed  his  own.     'Twere  some  excuse 
Did  pity  of  their  suff'rings  warp  aside 
His  principle,  and  tempt  him  into  sin 
For  their  support,  so  destitute.     But  they  455 

Neglected,  pine  at  home  ;  themselves,  as  more 
Expos'd  than  others,  with  less  scruple  made 
His  victims,  robb'd  of  their  defenceless  all. 
Cruel  is  all  he  does.     'Tis  quenchless  thirst 
Of  ruinous  ebriety,  that  prompts  460 

His  ev'ry  action ;  and  imbrutes  the  man. 
O  for  ar4aw  to  noose  the  villain's  neck. 
Who  starves  his  own  ;  ^o  per^cutes  the  blood 
He  gave  them  in  his^chridren's  veins,  and  hateis^ 
And  wrongs  the  woman  he  has  sworn  to  love  J        465 
Pass  where  we  may,  throqgh  city  or  through  town, 
Village  or  hamlet,  of  this  merry  land, 
Though  lean  and  beggar'd,  every  twentieth  pace 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  89. 

Conducts  th'  unguarded  nose  to  such  a  whiff 
Of  stale  debauch,  forth-issuing  from  the  sties  47^ 

That  law  has  licens'd,  as  makes  Temp'rance  reel 
There  sit,  involv'd  and  lost  in  curling  clouds 
Of  Indian  fume,  and  guzzling  deep,  the  boor, 
The  lackey,  and  the  groom  ;  the  craftsman  there 
Takes  a  Lethean  leave  of  all  his  toil  )  475 

Smith,  cobbler,  joiner,  he  that  plies  the  shears, 
And  he  that  kneads  the  dough ;  all  loud  alike, 
All  learned  and  all  drunk  I  the  fiddle  screams 
Plaintive  and  piteous,  as  it  wept  and  wail'd 
Its  wasted  tones  and  harmony  unheard,  48()^ 

Fierce  the  dispute,  whate'er  the  theme  ;  while  she, 
Fell  Discord,  arbitress  of  such  debate. 
Perch 'd  on  the  signpost,  holds  with  even  hand 
Her  undocisive  scales.     In  this  she  lays 
A  weight  of  ignorance  ;  in  that,  of  pride  ;  485 

And  smiles  delighted  with  the  eternal  poise. 
Dire  is  the  frequent  curse,  and  its  twin  sound, 
The  cheek  distending  oath,  not  to  be  prais'd 
As  ornamental,  musical,  polite, 

Like  those  which  modern  senators  employ,  490 

"Whose  oath  is  rhet'rick,  and  who  swear  for  fame  ! 
Behold  the  schools,  in  which  plebeian  minds, 
Once  simple,  are  initiated  in  arts 
Which  some  may  practise  with  politer  grace, 
But  none  with  readier  skill ! — 'Tis  here  they  learn 
The  road  that  leads  from  competence  and  peace     496 
To  indigence  and  rapine  ;  till  at  last 
Society,  grown  weary  of  the  load, 
Shakes  her  encumber'd  lap,  and  casts  them  out. 
But  censure  profits  little  ;  vain  th'  attempt  500 

To  advertise  in  verse  a  publick  pest, 
That,  liko  the  filth  with  which  the  peasant  feedi 
His  hungry  acres,  stinks,  and  is  of  use. 
Th'  excise  is  fattened  with  the  rich  result 
Of  all  this  riot ;  and  ten  thousand  casks,  506 

For  ever  dribbling  out  their  base  contents,  ^ 

8* 


.  90  THE  TASK. 

Touch'd  by  the  Midas  finger  of  the  state, 
Bleed  gold  for  ministers  to  sport  away. 
Drink,  and  be  mad  then  ;  'tis  your  country  bids  ! 
Gloriously  drunk,  obey  th'  important  call.'  610 

Her  cause  demands  th'  assistance  of  your  throats ; 
Ye  all  can  swallow,  and  she  asks  no  moce. 

Would  I  had  fall'n  upon  those  happier  days 
That  poets  celebrate :  those  golden  times, 
And  those  Arcadian  scenes  that  Maro  sings,  515 

And  Sidney,  warbler  of  poetick  prose. 
Nymphs  were  Dianas  then,  and  swains  had  hearts 

P  That  felt  their  virtues  :  Innocence,  it  seems. 

From  courts  dismiss'd,  found  shelter  in  the  groves , 

The  footsteps  of  simplicity,  impress'd  520 

Upon  the  yielding  herbage,  (so  they  singe) 

Then  were  not  all  efFac'd ;  then  speech  profane, 

And  manners  profligate,  were  rarely  found, 

Observ'd  as  prodigies,  and  soon  reclaim'd. 

Vain  wish  !  those  days  were  never ;  airy  dreams    525 

Sat  for  the  picture  :  and  the  poet's  hand, 

Imparting  substance  to  an  empty  shade, 

Impos'd  a  gay  delirium  for  a  truth. 

Grant  it :  I  still  must  envy  them  an  age 

That  favour 'd  such  a  dream  :  in  days  like  these      530 

Impossible  when  Virtue  is  so  scarce. 

That  to  suppose  a  scene  where  she  presides 

Is  tramontane,  and  stumbles  all  belief! 

No  :  we  are  polish'd  now.     The  rural  lass, 

Whom  once  her  virgin  modesty  and  grace,  535 

Her  artless  manners,  and  her  neat  attire. 

So  dignified,  that  she  was  hardly  less 

Than  the  fair  shepherdess  of  old  romance, 

xS  seen  no  more.     The  character  is  lost  ! 

Her  head,  adorn'd  with  lappets  pinn'd  aloft,  540 

And  ribands  streaming  gay,  superbly  rais'd. 

And  magnified  beyond  all  human  size. 

Indebted  to  some  smart  wig-weaver's  hand 

For  more  than  half  the  tresses  it  sustains: 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  91 

Her  elbows  ruifled,  and  her  tott'ring  form  545 

111  propp'd  upon  French  heels  )  she  might  be  deem*d 
(But  that  the  basket  dangling  on  her  arm 
Interprets  her  more  truly)  of  a  rank 
Too  proud  for  dairy  work,  or  sale  of  eggs — 
Expect  her  soon  with  footboy  at  her  heels,  550 

No  longer  blushing  for  her  awkward  load, 
Her  train  and  her  umbrella  all  her  care  I 

The  town  has  ting'd  the  country  ;  and  the  stain 
Appears  a  spot  upon  a  vestal's  robe. 
The  worse  for  wh«^t  it  soils.    The  fashion  runs       555 
Do«m  into  scenes  still  rural ;  but,  alas, 
Scenes  rarely  grac'd  with  rural  manners  now ! 
Time  was  when  in  the  pastoral  retreat 
Th'  unguarded  door  was  safe  ;  men  did  not  watch 
T'  mvade  another's  right,  or  guard  their  own.         560 
Then  sleep  was  undisturb'd  by  fear,  unscar'd 
Bf  drunken  howlings ;  and  the  chilling  tale 
Of  midnight  murder  was  a  wonder  heard 
With  doubtful  credit,  told  to  frighten  babes. 
But  farewell  now  to  unsuspicious  nights,  565 

And  slumbers  unalarm'd  !  Now,  ere  you  sleep. 
See  that  your  polish'd  arms  be  prim'd  with  care, 
And  drop  the  night-bolt ; — ruffians  are  abroad ; 
And  the  first  larum  of  the  cock's  shrill  throat 
May  prove  a  trumpet,  summoning  your  ear  570 

To  horrid  sounds  of  hostile  feet  within. 
E'en  daylight  has  its  dangers  ;  and  the  walk 
Through  pathless  wastes  and  woods,  unconscious  once 
Of  other  tenants  than  melodious  birds. 
Or  harmless  flocks,  is  hazardous  and  bold.  675 

Lamented  change  !  to  which  full  many  a  cause 
Invet'rate,  hopeless  of  a  cure,  conspires. 
The  course  of  human  things  from  good  to  ill, 
From  ill  to  worse,  is  fatal,  never  fails. 
Increase  of  pow'r  begets  increase  of  wealth  ;  580 

Wealth  luxury,  and  luxury  excess  : 
Excess,  the  scrofulous  and  itchy  plague, 


92  THE  TASK. 

Thai  seizes  first  the  opulent,  descends 

To  the  next  rank  contagious,  and  in  time 

Taints  downward  all  the  graduated  scale  586 

Of  order,  from  the  chariot  to  the  plough. 

The  rich,  and  they  that  have  an  arm  to  check 

The  license  of  the  lowest  in  degree, 

Desert  their  office  ;  and  themselves,  intent 

On  pleasure,  haunt  the  capital,  and  thus  590 

To  all  the  violence  of  lawless  hands 

Resign  the  scenes  their  presence  might  protect. 

Authority  herself  not  seldom  sleeps, 

1  hough  resident,  and  witness  of  the  wrong. 

The  plump  convivial  parson  often  bears  595 

The  magisterial  sword  in  vain,  and  lays 

His  rev'rence  and  his  worship  both  to  rest 

On  the  same  cushion  of  habitual  sloth. 

Perhaps  timidity  restrains  his  arm  ; 

When  he  should  strike  he  trembles,  and  sets  free,  600 

Himself  enslav'd  by  terrour  of  the  band — 

Th'  audacious  convict  whom  he  dares  not  bind. 

Perhaps  though  by  profession  ghostly,  pure,-  ^- 

He,  too,  may  have  his  vice,  and  sometimes  prove 

Less  dainty  than  becomes  his  grave  outside  605 

In  lucrative  concerns.     Examine  well 

His  milk-white  hand  ;  the  palm  is  harldly  clean — 

But  here  and  there  an  ugly  smutch  appears. 

Foh  !  'twas  a  bribe  that  left  it :  he  has  touch'd 

Corruption.     Whoso  seeks  an  audit  he^e  610 

Propitious,  pays  his  tribute,  game  or  fish,* 

Wild  fowl  or  venison  :  and  his  errand  speedy. 

But  faster  far,  and  more  than  all  the  rest, 
A  noble  cause,  which  none,  who  bears  a  spark 
Of  publick  virtue,  ever  wish'd  removed,  615 

Works  the  deplor'd  and  mischievous  effect. 
'Tis  universal  soldiership  has  stabb'd 
Tho  heart  of  merit  in  the  meaner  class. 
Arms,  through  the  vanity  and  brainless  rage 
,  Of  those  that  bear  them,  in  whatever  cause,  62G 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  93 

Seem  most  at  variance  with  all  moral  good, 
And  incompatible  with  serious  thought. 
The  clown,  the  child  of  nature,  without  guile, 
Blest  with  an  infant's  ignorance  of  Ml 
But  his  own  simple  pleasures  ;  now  and  then  625 

A  wrestling  match,  a  foot-race,  or  a  fair ; 
Is  balloted,  and  trembles  at  the  news : 
Sheepish  he  doffs  his  hat,  and  mumbling  swears 
A  bible  oath  to  be  whate'er  they  please, 
To  do  he  knows  not  what.     The  task  perform'd      630 
That  instant  he  becomes  the  sergeant's  care, 
His  pupil,  and  his  torment,  and  his  jest. 
His  awkward  gait,  his  introverted  toes, 
Bent  knees,  round  shoulders,  and  dejected  looks, 
Procure  him  Tm,ny  a  curse.     By  slow  degrees,        635 
Unapt  to  learn,  and  form'd  of  stubborn  stuff. 
He  yet  by  slow  degrees  puts  off  himself, 
Grows  conscious  of  a  change,  and  likes  it  well: 
He  stands  erect  :  his  slouch  becomes  a  walk ; 
He  steps  right  onward,  martial  in  his  air,  640 

His  form  and  movement ;  is  as  smart  above 
As  meal  and  larded  locks  can  make  him  ;  wears 
His  hat,  or  his  plum'd  helmet,  with  a  grace  ; 
And,  his  three  years  of  heroship  expir'd, 
Returns  indignant  to  the  slighted  plough.  645 

He  hates  the  field,  in  which  no  fife  or  drum 
Attends  him  ;  drives  his  cattle  to  a  march  ; 
And  sighs  for  the  smart  comrades  he  has  left. 
Twere  well  if  his  exteriour  change  were  all— 
But  with  his  clumsy  port  the  wretch  has  lost  650 

His  ignorance  and  harmless  manners  too. 
To  swear,  to  game,  to  drink  ;  to  show  at  home 
By  lewdness,  idleness,  and  sabbath  breach, 
The  great  proficiency  he  made  abroad ; 
T'  astonish,  and  to  grieve  his  gazing  friends  ;         655 
To  break  some  maiden's  and  his  mother's  heart: 
To  be  a  pest  where  he  was  useful  once  ; 
Are  his  sole  aim,  and  all  his  glory,  now  ^ 


94  THE  TASK. 

^      Man  in  society  is  like  a  flow'r  — 

Blown  in  its  native  bed  ;  'tis  there  alone  66* 

His  faculties,  expanded  in  full  bloom, 

Shine  out ;  there  only  reach  their  proper  use. 

But  man,  associated  and  leagued  with  man 

By  regal  warrant  or  self-join'd  by  bond 

For  int'rest  sake,  or  swarming  into  clans  66? 

Beneath  one  head  for  purposes  of  war, 

Like  flow'rs  selected  from  the  rest,  and  bound 

And  bundled  close  to  fill  some  crowded  vase, 

Fades  rapidly,  and,  by  compression  marr'd, 

Contracts  defilement  not  to  be  endur'd.  67G 

Hence  charter'd  boroughs  are  such  publick  plagues 

And  burghers,  men  immaculate  perhaps 

In  all  their  private  functions,  once  combin'd| 

Become  a  loathsome  body,  only  fit 

For  dissolution,  hurtful  to  the  main.  675 

Hence  merchants,  unimpeachable  of  sin 

Against  the  charities  of  domestick  life, 

Incorporated,  seem  at  once  to  lose 

Their  nature  ;  and,  disclaiming  all  regard 

For  mercy  and  the  common  rights  of  man,  680 

Build  factories  with  blood,  conducting  trade 

At  the  sword's  point,  and  dying  the  white  robe 

Of  innocent  commercial  Justice  red. 

Hence,  too,  the  field  of  glory,  as  the  world 

Misdeems  it,  dazzled  by  its  bright  array,  685 

With  all  its  majesty  of  thund'ring  pomp. 

Enchanting  musick,  and  immortal  wreaths, 

Is  but  a  school,  where  thoughtlessness  is  taught 

On  principle,  where  foppery  atones 

For  folly,  gallantry  for  ev'ry  vice.  696 

But  slighted  as  it  is,  and  by  the  great 
Abandon'd,  and,  which  still  I  more  regret. 
Infected  with  the  manners  and  the  modes 
It  knew  not  once,  the  country  wins  me  still 
I  never  fram'd  a  wish,  or  form'd  a  plan,  695 

m  That  flatter'd  me  with  hopes  of  earthly  bliss, 


THE  WINTER   EVENING.  95 

But  there  I  laid  the  scene.     There  early  stray'd 
My  fancy,  ere  yet  liberty  of  choice 
Had  found  me,  or  the  hope  of  being  free. 
My  very  dreams  were  rural }  rural  too  700 

The  first-born  efforts  of  my  youthful  muse, 
Sportive  and  jingling  her  poetick  bells, 
Ere  yet  her  ear  was  mistress  of  their  powers. 
No  bard  could  please  me  but  whose  lyre  was  tun'd 
To  Nature's  praises.     Heroes  and  their  feats  705 

Fatigu'd  me,  never  weary  of  the  pipe 
Of  Tityrus,  assembling,  as  he  sang, 
The  rustick  throng  beneath  his  fav*rite  beech. 
Then  Milton  had  indeed  a  poet's  charms : 
New  to  my  taste,  his  Paradise  surpass'd    ^  710 

The  struggling  efforts  of  my  boyish  tongue 
To  speak  its  excellence.     I  danc'd  for  joy. 
I  marveU'd  much  that,  at  so  ripe  an  age 
As  twice  seven  years,  his  beauties  had  then  first 
Engag'd  my  wonder  ;  and  admiring  still,  715 

And  still  admiring,  with  regret  suppos'd 
The  joy  half  lost,  because  not  sooner  found. 
There,  too,  enamour'd  of  the  life  I  lov'd, 
Pathetick  in  its  praise,  in  its  pursuit 
Determined  and  possessing  it  at  last,  720 

With  transports  such  as  favour'd  lovers  feel, 
I  studied,  priz'd,  and  wish'd  that  I  had  known, 
Ingenious  Cowley  !  and,  though  now  reclaimed 
By  modern  lights  from  an  erroneous  taste, 
I  cannot  but  lament  thy  splendid  wit "  725 

Entangled  in  the  cobwebs  of  the  schools. 
I  still  revere  thee,  courtly  though  retir'd ; 
Though  stretch'd  at  ease  in  Chertsey's  silent  bow*rs, 
Not  unemploy'd  ;  and  finding  rich -amends  - 
For  a  lost  world  in  solitude  and  verse.  730 

Tis  born  with  all:  the  love  of  Nature*ff"Work8 
Is  an  ingredient  in  the  compound  man, 
Infus'd  at  the  creation  of  the  kind. 
And,  though  th*  Almighty  Maker  has  throughout 


i?6  THE  TASK. 

Discriminated  eacli  from  each,  by  strokes  735 

And  touches  of  his  hand,  witli  so  much  art 
Diversified,  that  two  were  never  found 
Twins  at  all  points — ^yet  this  obtains  in  all 
That  all  discern  a  beauty  in  his  works, 
And  all  can  taste  them  :  minds  that  have  b&en  formed 
And  tutor'd  vith  a  relish  more  exact,  741 

But  none  without  some  relish,  none  unmov'd. 
It  is  a  flame  that  dies  not  even  there, 
Where  nothing  feeds  it :  neither  business,  crowdBy 
Nor  habits  of  luxurious  city  life,  745 

Whatever  else  they  smother  of  true  worth 
In  human  bosoms,  quench  it  or  abate. 
The  villas,  with  which  London  stands  begirt, 
Like  a  swarth  Indian  with  his  belt  of  beads 
Prove  it.     A  breath  of  unadult'rate  air  750 

The  glimpse  of  a  green  pasture,  how  they  cheer 
The  citizen,  and  brace  his  languid  frame  ! 
E'en  in  the  stifling  bosom  of  the  town 
A  garden,  in  which  nothing  thrives,  has  charms 
That  sooth  ths  rich  possessor  ;  much  consol'd,        755 
That  here  and  there  some  sprigs  of  mournful  muit 
Of  nightshade,  or  valerian,  grace  the  well 
He  cultivates.    These  serve  him  with  a  hint 
That  Nature  lives ;  that  sight-refreshing  green 
Is  still  the  liv'ry  she  delights  to  wear,  760 

Though  sickly  samples  of  th'  exub'rarit  whole. 
What  are  the  casements  lin'd  with  creeping  herbs. 
The  prouder  sashes  fronted  with  a  range 
Of  orange,  myrtle,  or  the  fragrant  weed. 
The  Frenchman's  darling  ?*  are  they  not  all  proofs, 
That  man,  immur'd  in  cites,  still  retains  766 

His  inborn  inextinguishable  thirst 
Of  rural  scenes,  compensating  liis  loss 
By  supplemental  shifts,  the  best  he  may  ? 
The  most  unfurnish'd  with  the  means  of  life,  77C 

And  they,  that  never  pass  their  brick-wall  bounds, 
*  Mignionette. 


« 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  9? 

To  range  the  fields,  and  treat  their  lungs  witn  air, 
Yet  feel  t\ie  burning  instinct  j  over  head 
Suspend  their  crazy  boxes  planted  thick, 
And  water 'd  duly.     There  the  pitcher  stands  775 

A  fragment,  and  the  spoutless  teapot  there ; 
Sad  witnesses  how  close-pent  man  regrets 
The  country,  with  what  ardour  he  contrives 
A  peep  at  Nature,  when  he  can  no  more. 

Hail,  therefore,  patroness  of  health  and  ease,      780 
And  contemplation,  heart-consoling  joys, 
And  harmless  pleasures  in  the  throng'd  abode 
Of  multitudes  unknown  !  hail,  rural  life  •  • 
Address  himself  who  will  to  the  pursuit 
Of  honours,  or  emolument,  or  fame  ;  785 

I  shall  not  add  myself  to  such  a  chase. 
Thwart  his  attempts,  or  envy  his  success. 
Some  must  be  great.     Great  offices  will  have 
Great  talents.    And  God  gives  to  ev'ry  man  • 
The  virtue,  temper,  understanding,  taste,  790 

That  lifts  him  into  life,  and  lets  him  fall 
Just  in  the  niche  he  was  ordain'd  to  fill. 
To  tho  deliv'rer  of  an  injur'd  land 
He  gives  a  tongue  t'  enlarge  upon,  a  heart 
To  feel,  andjcouragc  to  redress,  her  wrongs;  795 

•To  monarchs  dignity ;  to  judges  sense  ; 
To  artists  ingenuity  and  skill ; 
To  me,  an  uifambitious  mind,  content 
In  the  low  vale  of  life,  that  early  felt 
A  wish  for  ease  and  leisure,  and  ere  long  800 

Found  here  that  leisure  and  that  ease  I  wished. 
Vol.  II.  9 


THE  TASK. 


TbE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  FIFTH  BOOK. 

A  frosty  morning — The  foddering  of  cattle — The  woodmaa  a- id 
his  d^g — The  poultry — Whimsical  effects  of  a  frost  at  a  w&terfall 
— The  empress  of  Russia's  palace  of  ice — Amusements  ormo- 
narchs — War,  one  of  them — Wars,  whcijce — And  whence  mo- 
narchy—The evils  of  it — English*and  French  loyaltv  contrasted 
— Tlifr  Bastile,  and  a  prisoner  theffe — Liberty  the  chief  retfom- 
mendatitin  of  this  country — Modern  patriotism  questionable, 
and  why — The  perishable  nature  of  the  best  human  institutions 
— Spiritual  liberty  not  perishable — The  slavish  state  of  man  by 
nature — Deliver  him,  Deist,  if  you  can — Grace  must  do  it — The 
respective  merits  of  patriots  and  martyrs  stated — Their  different 
treatment — Happy  freedom  of  the  man  whom  A-ace  makes  free^ 
His  relish  of  the  works  of  God — Addresrto-the  Creator.         "" 


'TIS  morning  \  and  the  sun,  with  ruddy  orb 

Ascending,  fires  th'  horizon  ;  while  the  clouds 

That  crowd  away  before  the  driving  wind^ 

More  ardent  as  the  disk  emerges  more, 

Resemble  most  some  city  in  a  blaze,  5 

Seen  through  the  leafless  wood.    His  slanting  ray 

Slides  ineffectual  down  the  snowy  vale, 

And,  tinging  all  with  his  own  rosy  hue, 

From  ev'ry  herb  and  ev'ry  spiry  blade 

Stretches  a  length  of  shadow  o'er  the  field.  10 

Mine  spindling  into  longitude  immense, 

In  spiTe  of  gravity,  and  sag^jcemark 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.         99 
That  I  myself  am  but  a  fleeting  shade, 
Provokes  me  to  a  smile.     With  eye  askance, 
I  view  the  muscular  proportion 'd  limb  15 

Transform'd  to  a  lean  shank.     The  shapeless  pair, 
As  tncy  design'd  to  mock  me,  at  my  side, 
Take  step  for  step  :  and,  as  I  near  approach 
The  cottage,  wallt  along  the  plaster'd  wall, 
Prepost'rous  sight !  the  legs  without  the  man.  20 

The  verdure  of  the  plain  lies  buried  deep 
Beneath  the  dazzling  deluge  ;  and  the  bents, 
And  coarser  grass,  upspearing  o'er  the  rest. 
Of  late  unsightly  and  un«een,  now  shine 
Conspicuous,  and  in  bright  apparel  clad,  25 

And,  fledg'd  with  icy  feathers,  nod  superb. 
The  cattle  mourn  in  corners,  where  the  fence 
Screens  them,  and  seem  half  petrified  to  sleep 
In  unrecumbent  sadness.     There  they  wait 
Their  wonted  fodder  ;  not  like  hung'ring  man,,         30 
Fretful  if  unsupplied ;  but  silent,  meek, 
And  patient  of  the  slow-pac'd  swain's  delay. 
He  from  the  stack  carves  out  the  accustom'd  load, 
Deep  plunging,  and  again  deep-plunging  ofl, 
His  broad  keen  knife  into  the  solid  mass  ;  35 

Smooth  as  a  wall  the  upright  remnant  stands. 
With  such  undeviating  and  even  force 
He  severs  it  away  ;  no  needless  care, 
Lest  storm  should  overset  the  leaning  pile 
Deciduous,  or  its  own  unbalanc'd  weight.  40 

Forth  goes  the  woodman,  leaving  unconcern'd 
The  cheerful  haunts  of  man  ;  to  wield  the  axe, 
And  drive  the  wedge,  in  yonder  forest  drear. 
From  morn  to  eve  his  solitary  task. 
Shaggy,  and  lean,  and  shrewd,  with  pointed  ears      45 
And  tail  cropp'd  short,  half  lurcher  and  half  cur — 
His  dog  attends  him.     Close  behind  his  heel 
Now  creeps  he  slow  ;  and  now,  with  many  a  frisk 
Wide-scamp'ring,  snatches  up  the  drifted  snow 
With  i  v'ry  teeth,  or  ploughs  it  with  his  snout ;         51 


JUO  THE  TASK. 

Then  shakes  his  powder'd  coat,  and  barks  for  joy. 
Heedless  of  all  his  pranks,  the  sturdy  churl 
Moves  right  toward  the  mark  ;  nor  stops  for  aught, 
But  now  and  then  with  pressure  of  his  thumb 
T'  adjust  the  fragrant  charge  of  a  short  tube,  55 

That  fumes  beneath  his  nose  :  the  trailing  cloud 
Streams  far  behind  him,  scenting  all  the  air. 
Now  from  the  roost,  or  from  the  neighb'ring  pale 
Where  diligent  to  catch  the  first  faint  gleam 
Of  smiling  day,  they  gossip'd  side  by  side,  60 

Come  trooping  at  the  housewife's  well  known  call 
The  feather'd  tribes  domestiok.     Half  on  wing, 
And  half  on  foot,  they  brush  the  fleecy  flood, 
Conscious  and  fearful  of  too  deep  a  plunge. 
The  sparrows  peep,  and  quit  the  shelt'ring  eaves,     65 
To  seize  the  fair  occasion  ;    well  they  eye 
The  scatter'd  grain,  and  thievishly  resolv'd 
T*  escape  th'  impending  famine,  often  scar'd 
As  oft  return — a  pert  voracious  kind. 
Cban  riddance  quickly  made,  one  only  care  70 

Remains  to  each,  the  search  of  sunny  nook, 
Or  shed  impervious  to  the  blast,     Resign'd 
To  sad  necessity,  the  cock  foregoes 
His  wonted  strut ;  and,  wading  at  their  head 
With  well-consider'd  steps,  seems  to  resent  75 

His  alter'd  gait,  and  stateliness  retrench'd. 
How  find  the  myriads,  that  in  summer  cheer 
The  hills  and  valleys  with  their  ceaseless  songs, 
Due  sustenance,  or  where  subsist  they  now  ? 
Earth  yields  them  naught  j  th'  imprison'd  worm  ia 
safe  80 

Beneath  the  frozen  clod  ;  all  seeds  of  herbs 
Lie  cover'd  close  ;  and  berry-bearing  thorns, 
That  feed  the  thrush,  (whatever  some  suppose,) 
Afford  the  smaller  minstrels  no  supply. 
The  long-protracted  rigour  of  the  year  85 

Thins  all  their  num'rous  flocks.     In  chinks  and  holes 
Ten  thousand  seek  an  unmolested  end, 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.       101 

A^  instinct  prompts  ;  self-buried  ere  they  die. 
The  very  rooks  and  daws  forsake  the  fields, 
Where  neither  grub,  nor  root,  ndr  earth  nut,  now      90 
Repays  their  labour  more  ;  and  perch'd  aloft 
By  the  way-side,  or  stalking  in  the  path. 
Lean  pensioners  upon  the  traveler's  track, 
Pick  up  their  nauseous  dole,  though  sweet  to  them, 
Of  voided  pulse  or  half-digested  grain.  95 

The  streams  are  lost  amid  the  splendid  blank; 
/O'crwhelming  all  distinction.     On  the  flood, 
Indurated  and  fix'd,  the  snowy  weight 
Lies  undissolv'd  ;  while  silently  beneath. 
And  unperceiv'd,  the  current  steals  away.  100 

Not  so  where,  scornful  of  a  check,  it  leaps 
The  mill-dam,  dashes  on  the  restless  wheel, 
And  wantons  in  the  pebbly  gulf  below : 
No  frost  can  bind  it  there  :  its  utmost  force 
Can  but  arrest  the  light  and  smoky  mist,  105 

That  in  its  fall  the  liauid  sheet  throws  wide. 
And  see  where  it  has  hung  the  embroider'd  banks 
"With  forms  so  various,  that  no  pow'rs  of  art, 
The  pencil,  or  the  pen,  may  trace  the  scene  1 
Here  glitt'ring  turrets  rise,  upbearing  high,  110 

(Fantastick  misarrangement !)  on  the  roof 
Large  growth  of  what  may  seem  the  sparkling  trees 
And  shrubs  of  fairy  land.     The  crystal  drops 
That  trickled  down  the  branches,  fast  congeal'd, 
Shoot  into  pillars  of  pellucid  length,  115 

And  prop  the  pile  they  but  adorn'd  before. 
Here  grotto  within  grotto  safe  defies 
The  sunbeam  ;  there,  emboss'd  and  fretted  wild, 
The  growing  wonder  talies  a  thousand  shapes 
£Japricioa^,  in  which  fancy  seeks  in  vain  120 

The  likeness  of  some  object  seen  before. 
Thus  Nature  works  as  if  to  mock  at  Art, 
Vnd  in  defiance  of  her  rival  pow'rs ; 
3y  these  fortuitous  and  ranaom  strokes 
Performing  such  inimitable  featS;  ^25 

9* 


102  THE  TASK. 

As  she  with  all  her  rules  can  never  reach. 

Less  worthy  of  applause,  though  more  admir'd. 

Because  a  novelty,  the  work  of  man, 

Imperial  mistress  of  the  fur-clad  Russ, 

Thy  most  magnficent  and  mighty  freak,  130 

The  wonder  of  tlie  North.     No  forest  fell 

When  thou  wouldst  build ;  no  quarry  sent  its  stores, 

T   enrich  thy  walls  :  but  thou  didst  hew  the  floods, 

And  make  thy  marble  of  the  glassy  wave. 

In  such  a  palace  Aristasus  found  135 

Cyrene,  when  he  bore  the  plaintive  tale 

Of  his  lost  bees  to  her  maturnal  ear; 

In  such  a  palace  poetry  might  place 

Tlie  armoury  of  Winter  ;  where  his  troops, 

The  gloomy  clouds,  find  weapons,  arrowy  sleet       140 

Skin-piercing  volley,  blossom-bruising  hail, 

And  snow,  that  often  blinds  the  traveler's  course. 

And  wraps  him  in  an  unexpected  tomb. 

Silently  as  a  dream  the  fabrick  rose  ; 

No  sound  of  hammer  or  of  saw  was  there  :  145 

Ice  upon  ice,  the  well-adjusted  parts 

Were  soon  conjoin'd,  nor  other  cement  ask'd 

Than  water  interfus'd,  to  make  them  one. 

Lamps  gracefully  dispos'd,  and  of  all  hues, 

lUumin'd  ev'ry  side  :  a  wat'ry  light  150 

Gleam'd  through  the  clear  transparency,  that  seem'd 

Another  moon  new  ris'n,  or  meteor  fall'n 

From  Heav'n  to  Eartli,  of  lambent  flame  serene  • 

So  stood  the  brittle  prodigy  ;  though  smooth 

And  slipp'ry  the  materials,  yet  frost-bound  156 

Firm  as  a  rock.     Nor  wanted  aught  within 

That  royal  residence  might  well  befit, 

For  grandeur  or  for  use.     Long  wavy  wreaths 

Of  flow'rs  that  fear'd  no  enemy  but  warmth, 

Blush'd  on  the  pannels.     Mirror  needed  none  ICO 

Where  all  was  vitreous  ;  but  in  order  due 

Convivial  table  and  commodious  seat 

(What  seem'd  at  least  commodious  seat)  were  there  • 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.       103 

Sofa,  and  couch,  and  high-built  throne  august. 

The  same  lubricity  was  found  in  all,  166 

And  all  was  moist  to  the  warm  touch  ;  a  scene 

Of  evanescent  glory,  once  a  stream, 

And  soon  to  slide  into  a  stream  again. 

Alas  !  *twas  but  a  mortifying  stroke 

Of  undesign'd  severity,  that  glanc'd,  170 

(Made  by  a  monarch,)  on  her  own  estate, 

On  human  grandeur  and  the  courts  of  kings. 

'Twas  transient  in  its  nature,  as  in  show 

'Twas  durable  ;  as  worthless,  as  it  seem'd 

Intrinsically  precious  j  to  the  foot  176 

Tpsach'rous  and  false  ;  it  smil'd,  and  it  was  coli.^y 

Great  princes  have  great  play-things.     Some  have 
play'd 
At  hewing  mountains  into  men,  and  some 
At  building  human  wonders  mountain-high. 
Some  have  amus'd  the  dull,  sad  years  of  Ufe,  180 

(Life  spent  in  indolence,  and  therefore  sad,) 
With  schemes  of  monumental  fame;  and  sought 
By  pyramids  and  mausolean  pomp, 
Short  liv'd  themselves,  t'  immortalize  their  bones. 
Some  seek  diversion  in  the  tented  field,  185 

And  make  the  sorrows  of  mankind  their  sport. 
But  war's  a  game,  which,  were  their  subjects  wise, 
Kings  would  not  play  at.     Nations  would  do  well, 
T'  extort  their  truncheons  from  the  puny  hands 
Of  heroes,  whose  infirm  and  baby  minds  190 

Are  gratified  with  mischief;  and  who  spoil. 
Because  men  suffer  it,  their  toy,  the  world. 

When  Babel  was  confounded,  and  the  great 
Confed'racy  of  projectors  wild  and  vain 
Was  split  into  diversity  of  tongues,  195 

Then,  as  a  shepherd  separates  his  flock. 
These  to  the  upland,  to  the  valley  those, 
God  drove  asunder,  and  assign'd  their  lot 
To  all  the  nations.    Ample  was  the  boon 
He  gave  them,  in  its  distribution  fair  800 


104  THE  TASR. 

And  equal  ;  and  he  bade  them  dwell  in  peace. 

Peace  was  awhile  their  care  ;  they  plough'd,andsow'd 

And  reap'd  their  plenty  without  grudge  or  strife. 

But  violence  can  never  longer  sleep 

Than  human  passions  please.     In  every  heart         205 

Are  sown  the  sparks  that  kindle  fiery  war ; 

Occasion  needs  but  fan  them,  and  they  blaze. 

Cain  had  already  shed  a  brother's  blood  : 

The  deluge  wash'd  it  out ;  but  left  unquench*cl 

The  seeds  of  murder  in  the  breast  of  man.  210 

Soon  by  a  righteous  judgment  in  the  line 

Of  his  descending  progeny  was  found 

Th'^first  artificer  of  death  ;  the  shrewd 

Contriver,  who  first  sweated  at  the  forge, 

And  forc'd  the  blunt  and  yet  unbloodied  steel  215 

To  a  keen  edge,  and  made  it  bright  for  war. 

Him,  Tubal  nam'd,  the  Vulcan  of  old  times, 

The  sword  and  falchion  their  inventor  claim ; 

And  the  first  smith  was  the  first  murd'rer's  son. 

His  art  surviv'd  the  waters  ;  and  ere  long,  220 

When  man  was  multiplied  and  spread  abroad 

In  tribes  and  clans,  and  had  begun  to  call 

These  meadows  and  that  range  of  hills  his  own, 

The  tasted  sweets  of  property  begat 

Desire  of  more  ;  and  inaustry  in  some,  225 

T'  improve  and  cultivate  their  just  demesne, 

Made  others  covet  what  they  saw  so  fair. 

Thus  war  began  on  Earth  :  these  fought  for  spoil, 

And  those  in  self-defence.     Savage  at  first 

The  onset,  and  irregular.     At  length  230 

One  eminent  above  the  rest  for  strength, 

F"or  stratagem,  for  courage,  or  for  all. 

Was  chosen  leader  ;  him  they  serv'd  in  war. 

And  him  in  peace,  for  sake  of  warlike  deeds, 

Rev'renc'd  no  less.     Who  could  with  him  compare  ? 

Or  who  so  worthy  to  control  themselves,  236 

As  he,  whose  prowess  had  subdu'd  their  foes  ^ 

Thus  war,  affording  field  for  the  display 


rii*s!?rm::"~ 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.      105 
Of  virtue,  made  one  chief,  whom  times  of  peace, 
Which  have  their  exigencies  too,  and  call  240 

(Pot  skill  in  government,  at  length  made  king. 
King  was  a  name  too  proud  for  man  to  wear 
With  modesty  and  meekness  ;  and  tbo  crown 
So  dazzling  in  their  eyes,  who  set  it  on. 
Was  sure  t'  intoxicate  the  brows  it  bound  24.5 

It  is  the  abject  property  of  most, 
That,  being  parcel  of  the  common  mass, 
And  destitute  of  means  to  raise  themselves, 
They  sink,  and  settle  lower  than  they  need. 
They  know  not  what  it  is  to  feel  within  250 

A  comprehensive  faculty,  that  grasps 
Great  purposes  with  ease,  that  turns  and  wields. 
Almost  without  an  effort,  plans  too  vast 
For  their  conception,  which  they  cannot  move. 
Conscious  of  impotence  they  soon  grow  drunk        256 
With  gazing,  when  they  see  an  able  man 
Step  forth  to  notice  j  and,  besotted  thus, 
Build  him  a  pedestal,  and  say,  "  Stand  there, 
"  And  be  our  admiration  and  our  praise." 
They  roll  themselves  before  him  in  the  dust,  260 

Then  most  deserving  in  their  own  account 
When  most  extravagant  in  his  applause. 
As  if,  exalting  him,  they  rais'd  themselves. 
Thus  by  degrees,  self-cheated  of  their  sound 
And  sober  judgment,  that  he  is  but  man,  96o 

They  demi-deify  and  fume  him  so, 
That  in  due  season  he  forgets  it  too. 
Inflated  and  astrut  with  self  conceit, 
He  gulps  the  windy  diet ;  and  ere  long, 
Adopting  their  mistake,  profoundly  thinks  270 

The  world  was  made  in  vain,  if  not  for  him. 
Thenceforth  they  are  his  cattle  ;  drudges,  born 
To  bear  his  burdens,  drawing  in  his  gears, 
And  sweating  in  his  service,  his  caprice 
Becomes  the  soul  that  animates  them  all.  275 

He  deems  a  thousand,  or  ten  thousand  lives, 


106  THE  TASK. 

Spent  in  the  purchase  of  renown  for  him, 
An  easy  reck'ning :  and  they  think  the  same. 
Thus  kings  were  first  invented,  and  thus  kings 
Were  burnish'd  into  heroes,  and  became  280 

The  arbiters  of  this  terraqueous  swamp  ; 
Storks  among  frogs,  that  have  but  croak'd  and  died 
Strange,  that  such  folly,  as  lifts  bloated  man 
To  eminence,  fit  only  for  a  god, 

Should  ever  drivel  out  of  human  lips,  285 

E'en  in  the  cradled  weakness  of  the  world  ! 
Still  stranger  much,  that,  when  at  length  mankind 
Had  reach'd  the  sinewy  firmness  of  their  youth, 
And  could  discriminate  and  argue  well 
On  subjects  more  mysterious,  they  were  yet  290 

Babes  in  the  cause  of  freedom,  and  should  fear 
And  quake  before  the  gods  themselves  had  ma«''ft : 
But  above  measure  strange,  that  neither  proof 
Of  sad  experience,  nor  examples  set 
By  some  whose  patriot  virtue  has  prevail'd,  295 

Can  even  now,  when  they  are  grown  mature 
In  wisdom,  and  with  philosophick  deeds 
Familiar,  serve  t'  emancipate  the  rest ! 
#  Such  dupes  are  men  to  custom,  and  so  prone 

To  rev'rence  what  is  ancient,  and  can  plead  300 

A  course  of  long  observance  for  its  use, 

That  even  servitude,  the  worst  of  ills, 

Because  deliver'd  down  from  sire  to  son, 

Is  kept  and  guarded  as  a  sacred  thing. 

But  is  it  fit,  or  can  it  bear  the  shock  505 

Of  rational  discussion,  that  a  man. 

Compounded  and  made  up  like  other  men 

Of  elements  tumultuous,  in  whom  lust 

And  folly  in  as  ample  measure  meet 

As  in  the  bosoms  of  the  slaves  he  rules,  310 

Should  be  a  despot  absolute,  and  boast 

Himself  the  only  freeman  of  his  land  ? 

Should,  when  he  pleases ,  and  on  whom  he  will. 

Wage  war,  with  any  or  ^vith  no  pretence 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.      107 
Of  provocation  giv'n,  or  wrong  sustain'd,  315 

And  force  the  beggarly  last  doit  by  means 
That  his  own  humour  dictates,  from  the  clutch 
Of  Poverty,  that  thus  he  may  procure 
His  thousands,  weary  of  penurious  life, 
A  splendid  opportunity  to  die  ?  330 

Say  ye,  who  (with  less  prudence  than  of  old 
Jotham  ascrib'd  to  his  assembled  trees 
In  politick  convention)  put  your  trust 
r  th'  shadow  of  a  bramble,  and,  reclin'd 
In  fancied  peace  beneath  his  dang'rous  branch,       325 
Rejoice  in  him,  and  celebrate  his  sway, 
Where  find  ye  passive  fortitude  ?     Whence  springs 
Your  self-denying  zeal,  that  holds  it  good 
To  stroke  the  prickly  grievance,  and  to  hang 
His  thorns  with  streamers  of  continual  praise  ?        330 
We  too  are  friends  to  loyalty.    We  love 
The  king  who  loves  the  law,  respects  his  bounds, 
And  reigns  content  within  them  :  him  we  serve 
Freely  and  with  delight,  who  leaves  us  free : 
But  recollecting  still  that  he  is  man,  335 

We  trust  him  not  too  far.     King  though  he  be,    • 
And  king  in  England  too,  he  may  be  weak 
And  vain  enough  to  be  ambitious  still ; 
May  exercise  amiss  his  proper  pow'rs, 
Or  covet  more  than  freemen  choose  to  grant '         340 
Beyond  that  mark  is  treason.     He  is  ours,    ». 
T'  administer,  to  guard,  t'  adorn  the  state, 
But  not  to  warp  or  change  it.     We  are  his, 
To  serve  him  nobly  in  the  common  cause, 
True  to  the  death  ;  but  not  to  be  his  slaves.  345 

Mark  now  the  diff'rence,  ye  that  boast  your  love 
Of  kings,  between  your  loyalty  and  ours. 
We  love  the  man  ;  the  paltry  pageant,  you : 
We  the  chief  patron  of  the  commonwealth ; 
Vou,  the  regardless  author  of  its  woes ;  350 

We,  for  the  sake  of  liberty,  a  king  ; 
You,  chains  and  bondage  for  a  tyrant's  sake : 


105  THE  TASK. 

Our  love  is  principle,  and  has  its  root 

In  reason  ;  is  judicious,  manly,  free  ; 

Yours,  a  blind  instinct,  crouches  to  the  rod,  355 

And  licks  the  foot  that  treads  it  in  the  dust. 

Were  kingship  as  true  treasure  as  it  seems, 

Sterling,  and  worthy  of  a  wise  man's  wish, 

I  would  not  be  a  king  to  be  belov'd 

Causeless,  and  daub'd  with  undiscerning  praise,      360 

Wliore  love  is  mere  attachment  to  the  throne, 

Not  to  the  man  who  fills  it  as  he  ought. 

Whose  freedom  is  by  sufTrance,  and  at  will 
Of  a  superiour,  he  is  never  free. 
Who  lives,  and  is  not  weary  of  a  life  365 

Expos'd  to  manacles,  deserves  them  well. 
The  state  that  strives  for  liberty,  though  foil*d. 
And  forced  to  abandon  what  she  bravely  sought, 
Deserves  at  least  applause  for  her  attfjmpt, 
And  pity  for  her  loss.    But  that's  a  cause  370 

Not  often  unsuccessful :  pow'r  usurp'd 
Is  weakness  when  oppos'd  ;  conscious  of  wrong, 
'Tis  pusillanimous  and  prone  to  flight. 
Birt  slaves,  that  once  conceive  the  glowing  thought 
Of  freedom,  in  that  hope  itself  possess  375 

All  that  the  contest  calls  for  ;  spirit,  strength, 
The  scorn  of  danger,  and  united  hearts  ; 
The  surest  presage  of  the  good  they  seek.* 

Their  shame  to  manhood,  and  opprobrious  more 
To  France  than  all  her  losses  and  defeats,  380 

Old  or  of  later  date,  by  sea  or  land, 
Her  house  of  bondage,  worse  than  that  of  old 
Which  God  aveng'd  on  Pharaoh — ^the  Bastile 
Ye  horrid  tow'rs,  th'  abode  of  broken  hearts : 
Ye  dungeons,  and  ye  cages  of  despair,  385 

That  monarchs  have  supplied  from  age  to  age 

*  The  author  hopes  that  he  shall  not  be  censured  for  un- 
necessary warmth  upon  so  interesting  a  subject.  He  is 
aware,  that  it  is  become  almost  fashionable,  to  stigmatize 
such  sentiments  as  no  better  than  empty  declamation ;  but  if 
is  an  ill  symptom,  and  peculiar  to  modem  times. 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.      lOOf 
With  musick,  such  as  suits  their  sov'reign  ears— 
The  sighs  and  groans  of  miserable  men  ! 
There's  not  an  English  heart  that  would  not  leap 
To  hear  that  ye  were  fall'n  at  last ;  to  know  309 

That  e'en  our  enemies,  so  oft  employ 'd 
In  forging  chains  for  us,  themselves  were  free. 
For  he  who  values  Liberty,  confines 
His  zeal  for  her  predominance  within 
No  narrow  bounds  ;  her  cause  engages  him  396 

Wherever  pleaded.     'Tis  the  cause  of  man. 
There  dwell  the  most  forlorn  of  human  kind, 
Immur'd  though  unaccus'd,  condemn'd  untried. 
Cruelly  spar'd,  and  hopeless  of  escape. 
There,  like  the  visionary  emblem  seen  400 

By  him  of  Babylon,  life  stands  a  stamp, 
And,  filleted  about  with  hoops  of  brass, 
Still  lives,  though  all  his  pleasant  boughs  are  gone. 
To  count  the  hour-bell  arid  expect  no  change ; 
And  ever  as  the  sullen  sound  is  heard,  405 

Still  to  reflect,  that,  though  a  joyless  note 
To  him  whose  moments  all  have  one  dull  pace. 
Ten  thousand  rovers  in  the  world  at  large 
Account  it  musick  ;  that  it  summons  some 
To  theatre,  or  jocund  feast,  or  ball ;  410 

The  wearied  hireling  finds  it  a  release 
From  labour  ;  and  the  lover,  who  has  chid 
Its  long  delay,  feels  ev'ry  welcome  stroke 
Upon  his  heart-strings,  trembling  with  delight- 
To  fly  for  refuge  from  distracting  thought  416 
To  such  amusements  as  ingenious  wo 
Contrives,  hard  shifting,  and  without  her  tools 
To  read  engraven  on  the  mouldy  walls, 
In  stagg'ring  types,  his  predecessoF's  tale, 
A  sad  memorial,  and  subjoin  his  own —  420 
To  turn  purveyor  to  an  overgorg'd 
And  bloated  spider,  till  the  pamper'd  pest 
Is  made  familiar,  watches  his  approach, 
Comes  at  his  call,  and  serves  him  for  a  friend — 
Vol.  II.                                 10 


110  THE  TASK. 

To  wear  out  time  in  numb 'ring  to  and  fro  425 

The  studs  that  thick  emboss  his  iron  door ; 
Then  downward  and  then  upward,  then  aslant. 
And  then  alternate  ;  with  a  sickly  hope 
By  dint  of  change  to  give  his  tasteless  task 
Some  relish ;  till  the  sura,  exactly  found  430 

In  all  directions,  he  begins  again — 
O  comfortless  existence  !  hemm'd  around 
With  woes,  which  who  that  suffers  would  not  kneel 
And  beg  for  exile,  or  the  pangs  of  death  ? 
That  man  should  thus  encroach  on  fellow  man,      435 
Abridge  him  of  his  just  and  native  rights, 
Eradicate  him,  tear  him  from  his  hold 
Upon  th'  endearments  of  domestick  life 
And  social,  nip  his  fruitfulness  and  use, 
And  doom  him  for  perhaps  a  heedless  word  440 

To  barrenness,  and  solitude,  and  tears, 
Moves  indignation,  makes  the  name  of  king, 
(Of  king  whom  such  prerogative  can  please) 
As  dreadful  as  the  Manichean  god, 
Ador'd  through  fear,  strong  only  to  destroy.  445 

'      *Tis  liberty  alone,  that  gives  the  flow'r 
Of  fleeting  life  its  lustre  and  perfume  ; 
And  we  are  weeds  without  it.     All  constraint, 
Except  what  wisdom  lays  on  evil  men. 
Is  evil :  hurts  the  faculties,  impedes  450 

Their  progress  in  the  road  of  science  ;  blinds  ^ 

The  eyesight  of  Discovery  ;  and  begets, 
In  those  that  suffer  it,  a  sordid  mind. 
Bestial,  a  meager  intellect,  unfit 

To  be  the  tenant  of  man's  noble  form.  455 

Thee  therefore  still,  blameworthy  as  thou  art, 
With  all  thy  loss  o^  empire,  and  though  squeezed 
By  publick  exigence,  till  annual  food 
Fails  for  the  craving  hunger  of  the  state. 
Thee  I  account  still  happy,  and  the  chief  4C0 

Among  the  nations,  seeing  thou  art  free  ', 
My  native  nook  of  earth  !  Thy  clime  is  nido, 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.        Ill 
Replete  with  vapours,  and  disposes  much 
All  hearts  to  sadness,  and  none  more  than  mine  : 
Thine  unadulteratc  manners  are  less  soft  465 

And  plausible  than  social  life  reouires, 
And  thou  hast  need  of  discipline  and  art, 
To  give  thee  what  politer  France  receives 
From  Nature's  bounty — that  humane  address 
And  sweetness,  without  which  no  pleasure  is  470 

In  converse,  either  starv'd  by  cold  reserve, 
Or  flush 'd  by  fierce  dispute,  a  senseless  brawl. 
Yet,  being  free,  I  love  thee  :  for  the  sake 
Of  that  one  feature  can  be  well  content, 
Disgrac'd  as  thou  hast  been,  poor  as  thou  art,         475 
To  seek  no  sublunary  rest  beside. 
But  once  enslav'd,  farewell !  I  could  endure 
Chains  no  where  patiently  ;  and  chains  at  home, 
Where  I  am  free  by  birthright,  not  at  all. 
Then  what  were  left  of  roughness  in  the  grain       480 
Of  British  natures,  wanting  its  excuse 
That  it  belongs  to  freemen,  would  disgust 
And  shock  me.     I  should  then  with  double  psdn 
Feel  all  the  rigour  of  thy  fickle  clime ; 
And,  if  I  must  bewail  the  blessing  lost,  485 

For  which  our  Hampdens  and  our  Sidneys  bled, 
I  would  at  least  bewail  it  under  skies 
Milder,  among  a  people  less  austere  ; 
In  scenes,  which  having  never  known  me  free, 
Would  not  reproach  me  with  the  loss  I  felt.  490 

Do  I  forebode  impossible  events. 
And  tremble  at  vain  dreams  ?  Heav'n  grant  I  may! 
But  th'  ago  of  virtuous  politicks  is  past. 
And  we  are  deep  in  that  of  cold  pretence. 
Patriots  are  grown  too  shrewd  to  be  sincere,  495 

And  we  too  wise  to  trust  them.    He  that  takes 
Deep  in  his  soft  credulity  the  stamp 
Design'd  by  loud  declaimers  on  the  part 
Of  liberty,  (themselves  the  slaves  of  lust,) 
Incurs  derision  for  his  easy  faith  600 


112  THE  TASK. 

And  lack  of  knowledge,  and  with  cause  enough . 

For  when  was  publick  virtue  to  be  found, 

Where  private  was  not  ?  Can  he  love  the  whole. 

Who  loves  no  part  ?  Pie  be  a  nation's  friend, 

Who  is  in  truth  the  friend  of  no  man  there  ?  505 

Can  he  be  strenuous  in  his  country's  cause. 

Who  slights  the  charities,  for  whose  dear  sake 

That  country,  if  at  all,  must  be  belov'd  ? 

'Tis  therefore  «:i)ber  and  good  men  are  sad 
For  England's  glory,  seeing  it  wax  pale  510 

And  sickly,  while  her  champions  wear  their  hearU 
So  loose  to  private  duty,  that  no  brain 
Healthful  and  undisturb'd  by  factious  fumes, 
Can  dream  them  trusty  to  the  gen'ral  weal. 
Such  were  they  not  of  old,  whose  temper'd  blades  515 
Dispersed  the  shackles  of  usurp'd  control, 
And  hew'd  them  link  from  link  ;  then  Albion's  sons 
Were  sons  indeed  ;  they  felt  a  filial  heart 
Beat  high  within  them  at  a  mother's  wrongs  > 
And,  shining  each  in  his  domestick  sphere,  ©30 

Shone  brighter  still,  once  call'd  to  publick  view. 
'Tis  therefore  many,  whose  sequester'd  lot 
Forbids  their  interference,  looking  on 
Anticipate  perforce  some  dire  event ; 
And  seeing  the  old  castle  of  the  state,  5S5 

That  prorais'd  once  more  firmness,  so  as&ail'd, 
That  all  its  tempest-beaten  turrets  shake. 
Stand  motionless  expectants  of  its  fall. 
All  has  its  date  below  ;  the  fatal  hour 
W^as  register 'd  in  Heav'n  ere  time  began.  530 

Wo  turn  to  dust,  and  all  our  mightiest  works 
Die  too  :  the  deep  foundations  that  we  lay, 
Time  ploughs  them  up,  and  not  a  trace  remains. 
We  build  with  what  we  deem  eternal  rock  5 
A  distant  age  asks  where  the  fabrick  stood  ;  ^5 

And  in  the  dust,  sifted  and  search'd  in  vain 
The  undiscoverable  secret  sleeps. 

But  there  is  yet  a  liberty,  unsung 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WAI^.       113 
By  poets,  and  by  senators  unprais'd, 
Which  monarchs  cannot  grant,  nor  all  the  iH>w'r8  540 
Of  Earth  and  Hell  confed'rate  take  away  : 
A  liberty,  which  persecution,  fraud, 
Oppression,  prisons,  have  no  pow'r  to  bind 
Which  whoso  tastes  can  be  enslav'd  no  more. 
*Tis  liberty  of  heart  dcriv'd  from  Heav'n,  545 

Bought  with  his  blood,  who  gave  it  to  mankind. 
And  seal'd  with  the  same  token.     It  is  held 
By  charter,  and  that  charter-eanction'd  sure 
By  th'  unimpeachable  and  awful  oath 
And  promise  of  a  God.     His  other  gifts  550 

All  bear  the  royal  stamp  that  speaks  them  his. 
And  are  august !  but  this  transcends  them  all. 
His  other  works,  the  visible  display 
Of  all-creating  energy  and  might. 
Are  grand,  no  doubt,  and  worthy  of  the  word         555 
That,  finding  an  interminable  space 
Unoccupied,  has  fill'd  the  void  so  well, 
And  made  so  sparkling  what  was  dark  before. 
But  these  are  not  his  glory.     Man,  'tis  true, 
Smit  with  the  beauty  of  so  fair  a  scene,  5fl0 

Might  well  suppose  th'  artificer  divine 
Meant  it  eternal,  had  he  not  himself 
Pronounc'd  it  transient,  glorious  as  it  is. 
And,  still  designing  a  more  glorious  far, 
Doom'd  it  as  insufficient  for  his  praise.  566 

These  therefore  are  occasional,  and  pass ; 
Form'd  for  the  confutation  of  the  fool. 
Whose  lying  heart  disputes  against  a  God ; 
That  office  serv'd,  they  must  be  swept  away 
Not  BO  the  labours  of  his  love  :  they  shino  570 

In  other  heav'ns  than  these  that  we  behold, 
And  fade  not.     There  is  Paradise  that  fears 
No  forfeiture,  and  of  its  fruits  he  sends 
Large  prelibation  oft  to  saints  below. 
Of  these  the  first  in  order,  and  the  pledge,  575 

A.nd  confident  assurance  of  ^e  rest, 
10* 


m  THE  TASK. 

Is  liberty  ;  a  flight  into  his  arms, 

Pre  yet  mortality's  fine  threads  give  way, 

A  clear  escape  from  tyrannising  lust,  •  - 

And  full  immunity  from  penal  wo.  680 

Chains  are  the  portion  of  revolted  man. 
Stripes,  and  a  dungeon  ;  and  his  body  serves 
The  triple  purpose.     In  that  sickly,  foul. 
Opprobrious  residence,  he  finds  them  all. 
Prepense  his  heart  to  idols,  he  is  held  585 

In  silly  dotage  on  created  things. 
Careless  of  their  Creator.     And  that  low 
And  sordid  gravitation  of  his  pow'rs 
To  a  vile  clod,  so  draws  him,  with  such  force 
Resistless  from  the  centre  he  should  seek,  690 

That  he  at  last  forgets  it.     All  his  hopes 
Tend  downward  ;  his  ambition  is  to  sink. 
To  reach  a  depth  profounder  still,  and  still 
Profounder,  in  the  fathomless  abyss 
Of  folly,  plunging  in  pursuit  of  death.  690 

But  ere  he  gain  the  comfortless  repose 
He  seeks,  and  acquiescence  of  his  soul 
l]a.  Heav'n-renouncing  exile,  he  endures — 
What  does  he  not,  from  lusts  oppos'd  in  vain. 
And  self-reproaching  conscience  ?  He  foresees        600 
The  fatal  issue  to  his  health,  fame,  peace. 
Fortune,  and  dignity  ;  the  loss  of  all 
That  can  ennoble  man  and  rnake  frail  life, 
Short  as  it  is,  supportable.     Still  worse. 
Far  worse  than  all  the  plagues  with  which  his  Bine 
Infect  his  happiest  moments,  he  forbodes  606 

Ages  of  hopeless  mis'ry.     Future  death, 
An^  death  still  future.     Not  a  hasty  stroke, 
Like  that  which  sends  him  to  the  dusty  grave : 
But  unrepealable,  enduring,  death.  610 

Script  ure  is  still  a  trumpet  to  his  fears  : 
What  none  can  prove  a  forgery,  may  be  true  , 
What  none  but  bad  men  wish  exploded,  must 
That  scruple  checks  him.     Riot  is  not  loud 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.      115 
Nor  drunk  enough  to  drown  it      In  the  midst  615 

Of  laughter  his  compunctions  are  sincere  ; 
And  he  abhors  the  jest  by  which  he  shinesL 
Remorse  begets  reform.     His  master-lust     • 
Falls  first  before  his  resolute  rebuke, 
And  seems  dethron'd  and  vanquish'd.     Peace  ensues, 
But  spurious  and  short  liv'd  :  the  puny  child  621 

Of  self  congratulating  Pride,  begot 
On  fancied  Innocence.     Again  he  falls, 
And  fights  again  ;  but  finds,  his  best  essay 
A  presage  ominous,  portending  still  625 

Its  own  dishonour  by  a  worse  relapse. 
Till  feature,  unavailing  Nature,  foil'd 
So  ofl,  and  wearied  in  the  vain  attempt, 
Scoff's  at  her  own  performance.     Reason  now 
Takes  part  with  appetite,  and  pleads  the  cause        630 
Perversely,  which  of  late  she  so  condemn'd ; 
With  shallow  shifts  and  old  devices,  worn 
And  tatter'd  in  the  service  of  debauch, 
Cov'ring  his  shame  from  his  offended  sight, 

"  Hath  God  indeed  giv'n  appetites  to  man,  635 

And  stor'd  the  earth  so  plenteously  with  means 
To  gratify  the  hunger  of  his  wish ; 
And  doth  he  reprobate,  and  will  he  damn 
The  use  of  his  own  bounty  .'*  making  first 
So  frail  a  kind,  and  then  enacting  laws  640 

So  strict,  that  less  than  perfect  must  despair  ? 
Falsehood  !  which  whoso  but  suspects  of  truthy 
Dishonours  God,  and  makes  a  slave  of  man. 
Do  they  themselves,  who  undertake  for  hire 
The  teacher's  office,  and  dispense  at  large  645 

Their  weekly  dole  of  edifying  strains, 
Attend  to  their  own  musick  ?  have  they  faith 
In  what,  with  such  solemnity  of  tone 
And  gesture,  they  propound  to  our  belief.'* 
Nay  — Conduct  hath  the  loudest  tongue.     The  voice    * 
Is  but  an  instrument,  on  which  the  priest  65J 

May  play  what  tune  he  oleases.     In  the  deed, 


116  THE  TASK. 

The  unequivocal,  authentick  deed, 
We  find  sound  argument,  we  read  the  heart " 

Such  reas'nings  (if  that  name  must  needs  belong 
T'  excuses  in  which  reason  has  no  part)  656 

Serve  to  compose  a  spirit  well  inclin'd 
To  live  on  terms  of  amity  with  vice, 
And  sin  without  disturbance.     Often  urg'd, 
(As  often  as,  libidinous  discourse  660 

Exhausted,  he  resorts  to  solemn  themes 
Of  theological  and  grave  import,) 
They  gain  at  last  his  unreserv'd  assent ; 
Till,  harden'd  his  heart's  temper  in  the  forge 
Of  lust,  and  on  the  anvil  of  despair,  ^  66ft 

He  slights  the  strokes  of  conscience.    Nothing  moves, 
Or  nothing  much,  his  constancy  in  ill ; 
Vain  tamp'ring  has  but  foster'd  his  disease  ; 
'Tis  desp'rate,  and  he  sleeps  the  sleep  of  death. 
Haste,  now,  philosopher,  and  set  him  free.  670 

Charm  the  deaf  serpent  wisely.    Make  him  hear 
Of  rectitude  and  fitness,  moral  truth 
How  lovely,  and  the  moral  sense  how  sure, 
Consulted  and  obey'd,  to  guide  his  steps 
Directly  to  the  first  and  only  fair.  675 

Spare  not  in  such  a  cause.    Spend  all  the  pow^ra 
Of  rant  and  rhapsody  in  virtue's  praise  ; 
Be  most  sublimely  good,  verbosely  grand, 
And  with  poetick  trappings  grace  thy  prose^ 
Till  it  out-mantle  all  the  pride  of  verse. —  680 

Ah,  tinkling  cymbal,  and  high  sounding  brass, 
Smitten  in  vain  !  such  musick  cannot  charm 
The  eclipse,  that  intercepts  truth's  heav'nly  beam 
And  chills  and  darkens  a  wide  wand'ring  soul. 
The  still  small  voice  is  wanted.     He  must  speak,    686 
Whose  word  leaps  forth  at  once  to  its  effect ; 
Who  calls  for  things  that  are  not,  and  they  come. 
•   Gractj  makes  the  slave  a  freeman.     'Tis  a  change 
That  turns  to  ridicule  the  turgid  speech 
And  stately  tone  of  moralists,  who  boast  69^ 


v^  OF   TB* 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  W^ffll.'^*'  \l^  E  B  S  I 
As  if,  like  him  of  fabulous  renown, 
They  had  indeed  ability  to  smooth 
The  shag  of  savage  nature,  and  were  each 
An  Orpheus,  and  omnipotent  in  song  ; 
But  transformation  of  apostate  man  695 

From  fool  to  wise,  from  earthly  to  divine, 
Is  work  for  Him  that  made  him.     He  alone. 
And  he  by  means  in  philosophick  eyes 
Trivial  and  worthy  of  disdain,  achieves 
Tlie  wonder ;  humanizing  what  is  brute  700 

In  the  lost  kind,  extracting  from  the  lips 
Of  asps  their  venom,  overpow'ring  strength 
By^H^eakness,  and  hostility  by  love. 

Patriots  have  toiPd,  and,  in  their  country's  cause 
Bled  nobly  ;  and  their  deeds,  as  they  deserve,         705 
Receive  proud  recompense.     We  give  in  charge 
Their  names  to  the  sweet  lyre.    Th'  historick  muse, 
Proud  of  the  treasure,  marches  with  it  down 
To  latest  times ;  and  Sculpture,  in  her  turn. 
Gives  bond  in  stone  and  ever-during  brass  710 

To  guard  them,  and  t'  immortalize  her  trust : 
But  fairer  wreaths  are  due,  though  never  paid, 
To  those  who,  posted  at  the  shrine  of  Truth, 
Have  fall'n  in  her  defence.    A  patriot's  blood, 
Well  spent  in  such  a  strife,  may  earn  indeed,  715 

And,  for  a  time,  ensure  to  his  lov'd  land 
The  sweets  of  liberty  and  equal  laws  ; 
But  martyrs  struggle  for  a  brighter  prize. 
And  win  it  with  more  pain.     Their  blood  is  shed 
In  confirmation  of  the  noblest  claim —  720 

Our  claim  to  feed  upon  immortal  truth. 
To  walk  with  God,  to  be  divinely  free, 
To  soar,  and  to  anticipate  the  skies. 
Yet  few  remember  them.    They  liv'd  unknown. 
Till  persecution  dragg'd  them  into  fame,  725 

And  chas'd  them  up  to  Heaven.     Their  ashes  flew 
—No  marble  tells  us  whither.     With  their  names 
No  bard  embalms  and  sanctifies  his  song : 


SI 


118  THE  TASK. 

And  history,  so  warm  on  meaner  themes, 
Is  cold  on  this.     She  execrates  indeed  730 

The  tyranny  that  doom'd  them  to  the  fire, 
But  gives  the  glorious  sufF'rers  little  praise.* 
y  He  is  the  freeman  whom  the  truth  makes  free, 
And  all  are  slaves  beside.     There's  not  a  chain 
That  hellish  foes,  confed'rate  for  his  harm,  735 

Can  wind  around  him,  but  he  casts  it  off 
With  as  much  ease  as  Samson  his  green  withes. 
Ho  looks  abroad  into  the  varied  field 
Of  nature,  and  though  poor,  perhaps,  compar'd 
With  those  whose  mansions  glitter  in  his  sight,      740 
Calls  the  delightful  scenery  all  his  own.  - 

His  are  the  mountains,  and  the  valleys  his, 
And  the  resplendent  rivers.     His  t*  enjoy 
With  a  propriety  that  none  can  feel, 
But  who,  with  filial  confidence  inspir'd,  74) 

Can  lift  to  heav'n  an  unpresumptuous  eye, 
And  smiling  say — "  My  Father  made  them  all !" 
Are  they  not  his  by  a  peculiar  right, 
And  by  an  emphasis  of  int'rest  his, 
Whose  eye  they  fill  with  tears  of  holy  joy,  750 

Whose  heart  with  praise,  and  whose  exalted  mind 
With  worthy  thoughts  of  that  unwearied  love. 
That  flann'd,  and  built,  and  still  upholds  a  world 
j  So  cloth'd  with  beauty  for  rebellious  man.^ 

I  ■  Yes — ^ye  may  fill  your  garners,  ye  that  reap  756 

The  loaded  soil,  and  ye  may  waste  much  good 
111  senseless  riot ;  but  ye  will  not  find 
In  feast  or  in  the  chase,  in  song  or  dance, 
A  liberty  like  his,  who,  unimpeach'd 
Of  usurpation,  and  to  no  man's  wrong,  760 

Ap})ropriates  nature  as  his  Father's  work, 
Aiid  has  a  richer  use  of  yours  than  you. 
He  is  indeed  a  freeman.     Free  by  birth 
^  Of  no  mean  city;  plann'd  or  ere  the  hills 

*  See  Hume. 


THE  WINTER  MORJMING  WALK.       119 
\A  ^re  built;  the  fountains  open'd,  or  the  sea,  765 

W  ith  all  his  roaring  multitude  of  waves. 
His  freedom  is  the  same  in  ev'ry  state  ; 
Aiid  no  condition  of  this  changeful  life, 
So  nflanifold  in  cares,  whose  ev'ry  day 
Brings  its  own  evil  with  it,  makes  it  less :  770 

For  he  has  wings,  that  neither  sickness,  pain, 
Nor  penury,  can  cripple  or  confine. 
No  nook  so  narrow,  but  he  spreads  them  there 
With  ease,  and  is  at  large.     Th*  oppressor  holdff 
His  body  bound  ;  but  knows  not  what  a  range        776 
His  spirit  takes,  unconscious  cf  a  chain ; 
AndRhat  to  bind  him  is  a  vain  attempt, 
Whom  God  delights  in,  and  in  whom  He  dwells. 

Acquaint  thyself  with  God,  if  thou  would'st  taste 
His  works.    Admitted  once  to  his  embrace,  780 

Thou  shalt  perceive  that  thou  wast  blind  before ; 
Thine  eye  shall  be  instructed ;  and  thine  heart, 
Made  pure,  shall  relish  with  divine  delight, 
Till  then  unfelt,  what  hands  divine  have  wrought. 
Brutes  graze  the  mountain-top,  with  faces  prone,    785 
And  eyes  intent  upon  the  scanty  herb 
It  yields  them  ;  or,  recumbent  on  its  brow. 
Ruminate  heedless  of  the  scene  outspread 
Beneath,  beyond,  and  fetretching  far  away 
From  inland  regions  to  the  distant  main.  790 

Man  views  it,  and  admires  ;  but  rests  content 
With  what  he  views.     The  landscape  has  his  praise. 
But  not  its  author.    Unconcem'd  who  form'd 
The  Paradise  he  sees,  he  finds  it  such. 
And  such  well  pleas'd  to  find  it,  asks  no  more.        795 
Not  so  the  mind  that  has  been  touch 'd  from  Heav*3ri, 
And  in  the  school  of  sacred  wisdom  taught 
To  read  His  wonders,  in  whose  thought  the  world. 
Fair  as  it  is,  existed  ere  it  was. 

Nor  for  its  own  sake  merely,  but  for  his  800 

Much  more  who  fashion'd  it,  he  gives  it  praise ; 
Praise  that  from  earth  resulting,  as  it  ought. 


120  THE  TASK. 

To  earth's  acknowledg'd  sov'reign,  finds  at  once 

Its  only  just  proprietor  in  Him. 

The  soul  that  sees  him,  or  receives  sublim'd  80fi 

New  faculties,  or  learns  at  least  t'  employ 

More  worthily  the  powers  she  own'd  before, 

Discerns  in  all  things  what,  with  stupid  gaze 

Of  ignorance,  till  then  she  overlook'd, 

A  ray  of  heavenly  light,  gilding  all  forms  810 

Terrestrial  in  the  vast  and  the  minute ; 

The  unambiguous  footsteps  of  the  God, 

WIio  gives  its  lustre  to  an  insect's  wing, 

And  wheels  his  throne  upon  the  rolling  worlds. 

Much  conversant  with  Heaven,  she  often  holds  '  815 

"With  those  fair  ministers  of  light  to  man. 

That  fill  the  skies  nightly  with  silent  pomp. 

Sweet  conference.     Inquires  what  strains  were  they 

With  which  Heaven  rang,  when  every  star,  in  haste 

To  gratulate  the  new-created  earth,  820 

Sent  forth  a  voice,  and  all  the  sons  of  God 

Shouted  for  joy. — "  Tell  me,  ye  shining  hosts, 

That  navigate  a  sea  that  knows  no  storms, 

Beneath  a  vault  unsullied  with  a  cloud, 

If  from  your  elevation,  whence  ye  view  825 

Distinctly  scenes  invisible  to  man, 

And  systems,  of  whose  birth  no  tidings  yet 

Have  reach'd  this  nether  world,  ye  spy  a  race 

Favoured  as  ours ;  transgressors  from  the  womb 

And  hasting  to  a  grave,  yet  doom'd  to  rise,  830 

And  to  possess  a  brighter  Heaven  than  yours  ? 

As  one,  who,  long  detain 'd  on  foreign  shores, 

Pants  to  return,  and  when  he  sees  afar 

His  country's  weather-bleach'd  and  batter'd  roc3u, 

From  the  green  wave  emerging,  darts  an  eye         835 

Radiant  with  joy  toward  the  happy  land; 

So  I  with  animated  hopes  behold, 

And  many  an  aching  wish,  your  beamy  fires, 

That  show  like  beacons  in  the  blue  abyss, 

Ordain 'd  to  guide  th'  embodied  spirit  home  640 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK         121 
From  toilsome  life  to  never-ending  rest. 
Love  kindles  as  I  gaze.     I  feel  desires 
That  give  assurance  of  their  own  success, 
And  that,  infus'd  from  Heaven,  must  thither  tend." 

So  r^ds  he  Nature,  whom  the  lamp  of  truth      845 
IlluminSites.     Thy  lamp,  mysterious  Word  ! 
Which  whoso  sees,  no  longer  wanders  lost, 
With  intellects  bemaz'd  in  endless  doubt, 
But  runs  the  road  of  wisdom.     Thou  hast  built 
With  means  that  were  not,  till  by  thee  employ'd,    &?0 
Worlds  that  had  never  been,  hadst  thou  in  strength 
Been  less,  or  less  benevolent  than  strong. 
They  K  thy  witnesses,  who  speak  thy  pow*r 
And  goodness  infinite,  but  speak  in  ears 
That  hear  not,  or  receive  not  their  report.  855 

In  vain  thy  creatures  testify  of  thee. 
Till  thou  proclaim  thyself     Theirs  is  indeed 
A  teaching  voice  ;  but  'tis  the  praise  of  thine, 
That  whom  it  teaches  it  makes  prompt  to  learn, 
And  with  the  boon  gives  talents  for  its  use.  860 

Till  thou  art  heard,  imaginations  vain 
Possess  the  heart,  and  fables  false  as  hell : 
Yet  deem'd  oracular,  lure  down  to  death 
The  uninform'd  and  heedless  souls  of  men. 
We  give  to  chance,  blind  chance,  ourselves  as  blind, 
The  glory  of  thy  work  ;  which  yet  appears  866 

Perfect  and  ummi)eachablG  of  blame. 
Challenging  human  scrutiny,  and  prov'd 
Then  skilful  most  when  most  severely  judg'd. 
But  chance  is  not ;  or  is  not  where  thou  reign*st :  870 
Thy  providence  forbids  that  fickle  pow'r 
(If  pow'r  she  be,  that  works  but  to  confound) 
To  mix  her  wild  vagaries  with  thy  laws. 
Yet  thus  we  dote,  refusing  while  we  can 
Instruction,  and  inventing  to  ourselves  875 

Gods  such  as  guilt  makes  welcome ;  gods  that  sleepy 
Or  disregard  our  follies,  or  that  sit 
Amus'd  spectators  of  this  bustling  stage. 

Vol.  II.  n 


'22  THE  TASK. 

Thee  we  reject,  unable  to  abide 

Thy  purity,  till  pure  as  thou  art  pure,  880 

Made  such  by  thee,  we  love  thee  for  that  causei 
For  which  we  shunn'd  and  hated  thee  before. 
Then  we  are  free.     Then  liberty,  like  day,    • 
Breaks  on  the  soul,  and  by  a  flash  from  heav'n 
Fires  all  the  faculties  with  glorious  joy.  885 

A  voice  is  heard  that  mortal  ears  hear  not, 
Till  thou  hast  touch 'd  them  ;  *tis  the  voice  of  soogi 
A  loud  Hosanna  sent  from  all  thy  works ; 
Which  he  that  hears  it,  with  a  shout  repeats, 
And  adds  his  rapture  to  the  general  praise  !  890 

In  that  blest  moment,  Nature,  throwing  widcA^ 
Her  veil  opaque,  discloses  with  a  smile 
The  author  of  her  beauties,  who,  retir'd 
Behind  his  own  creation,  works  imseen 
By  the  impure,  and  hears  his  pow'r  denied .  895 

Thou  art  the  source  and  centre  of  all  minds. 
Their  only  point  of  rest,  eternal  Word  ! 
From  thee  departing,  they  are  lost,  and  rove 
At  random,  without  honour,  hope,  or  peace. 
From  thee  is  all  that  sooths  the  life  of  man,  900 

His  high  endeavour,  and  his  glad  success, 
His  strength  to  suffer,  and  his  will  to  serve. 
But  O  thou  bounteous  Giver  of  all  good. 
Thou  art  of  all  thy  gifls  thyself  the  crown ! 
Give  what  thou  canst,  without  thee  we  are  poor ;    905 
And  with  thee  rich,  take  what  thou  wilt  away. 


^■■^-- 


r^li 


THE  TASK* 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  SIXTH  BOOK 

Bella  at  a  distance — Their  effect — A  fine  noon  in  winter — A  shel- 
tered walk — Meditation  better  than  books — Our  familiarity  with 
the  course  of  Nature  makes  it  appear  less  wonderful  than  it  ia— 
The  transformation  tliat  fc3i)ring  effects  in  a  shrubbery,  described 
— A  mistake  concerning  the  course  of  Nature  corrected—Ood 
maintains  it  by  an  unremitted  act — The  amusements  fashionable 
at  this  Imur  of  the  day  reproved — Animals  happy,  a  delight- 
Jlu^sighy-Origin  of  cruelty  to  animals — That  it  is  a  great 
crmufipfoved  i'rmn  Scripture — Tliat  proof  illustrated  by  a  tale— 
A  lino  drawn  between  the  lawful  and  unlawful  destruction  of 
them — Their  good  and  UoCfu!  properties  insisted  on — Apology 
for  the  encomiums  bestowed  by  the  author  on  animals^— Instances 
of  man's  extravagant  praise  of  man — The  groans  of  the  ere<i- 
fion  shall  liave  an  end — A  view  taken  of  the  restoration  of  all 
lhiiig.s — An  invocation  and  an  invitation  of  Him  who  shall  bring 
it  to  pass — ^l''he  retired  man  vindicated  from  the  charge  of  uso* 
lessness — Conclusion. 


THERE  is  in  souls  a  sympatliy  with^sounds, 
And  as  the  mind  is  pitch'd,  the  ear  is  pleas'd 
With  melting  airs  or  martial,  brisk,  or  grave ', 
Some  chord  in  unison  with  what  we  hear 
Is  touch'd  within  us,  and  the  heart  replies. 
How  soft  the  musick  of  those  village  bellB, 
Falling  at  intervals  upon  the  ear 
:  fn  cadence  sweet,  now  dying  all  away, 
Now  pealing  loud  again,  and  louder  still, 
Clear  and  sonorous,  as  the  gale  comes  on  ! 


10 


124  THE  TASK. 

With  easy  force  it  opens  all  the  .cells 

Where  Mem'ry  slept.     Wherever  I  have  hoard 

A  kindred  melody,  the  scene  recurs, 

And  with  it  all  its  pleasures  and  its  pains. 

Such  comprehensive  views  the  spirit  takes,  Ifi 

That  in  a  few  short  moments  I  retrace 

(As  in  a  map  the  voyager  his  course) 

The  vindings  of  my  v/ay  through  many  years. 

Short  as  in  retrospect  the  journey  seems, 

It  seem'd  not  always  short ;  the  rugged  path,  20 

And  prospect  oft  so  dreary  and  forlorn, 

Mov'd  many  a  sigh  at  its  disheart'ning  length. 

Yet  feeling  present  evils^  while  the  past 

Faintly  impress  the  mind  or  not  at  all, 

How  readily  we  wish  time  spent  revok'd,     .  25 

That  we  might  try  the  ground  agairn,  where  once 

(Through  inexperience  as  we  now  perceive) 

We  miss'd  that  happiness  we  might  have  found ! 

Some  friend  is  gone,  perhaps  his  son's  best  friend! 

A  father,  whose  authority,  in  show  30 

When  most  severe,  and  must'ring  all  its  force, 

Was  but  the  graver  countenance  of  love  ; 

Whose  favour,  like  the  clouds  of  spring,  might  lcw*r, 

And  utter  now  and  then  an  awful  voice, 

But  had  a  blessing  in  its  darkest  frown,  35 

Threat'ning  at  once  and  nourishing  the  plant. 

We  lov'd,  but  not  enough,  the  gentle  hand 

That  rear'd  us.     At  a  thoughtless  age,  allur'd 

By  ev'ry  gilded  folly,  we  renounc'd 

His  shelt'ring  side,  and  wilfully  forewent  40 

That  converse  which  we  now  in  vain  regret. 

How  gladly  would  the  man  recall  to  life 

The  boy's  neglected  sire  1  a  mother  too, 

That  softer  friend,  perhaps  more  gladly  still. 

Might  he  denmnd  them  at  the  gates  of  death.  45 

Sorrow  has,  since  they  went,  subdu  d  and  tam  d 

The  playful  humour  :  he  could  now  endure, 

IHimself  grown  sober  in  tho  vale  ol'  tears,) 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.        125 

And  feel  a  parent's  presence  no  restraint. 

But  not  to  understand  a  treasure's  worth,  50 

Till  time  has  stol'n  away  the  slighted  good, 

Is  cause  of  half  the  povery  we  feel, 

And  makes  the  World  the  wilderness  it  is. 

The  few  that  pray  at  all,  pray  oft  amiss, 

And,  seeking  grace  t'  improve  the  prize  they  hold,  55  ; 

Would  urge  a  wiser  suit  than  asking  more.  i 

The  night  was  winter  in  its  roughest  mood ;  j 

The  morning  sharp  and  clear.     But  now  at  noon  ^ 

Upon  the  southern  side  of  the  slant  hills,  | 

And  where  the  woods  fence  off  the  northern  blast,  60 

The  season  smiles,  resigning  all  its  rage. 

And  has  the  warmth  of  May.     The  vault  is  blue 

Without  a  cloud,  and  white  without  a  speck 

The  dazzling  splendour  of  the  scene  below. 

Again  the  harmony  conies  o'er  the  vale ;  65 

And  through  the  trees  I  view  th'  embattled  tow'r. 

Whence  all  the  musick.     I  again  perceive 

The  soothing  influence  of  the  wafted  strains, 

And  settle  in  soft  musings  as  I  tread 

The  walk,  still  verdant,  under  oaks  and  elms,  70 

Whose  outspread  branches  overarch  the  glade. 

The  roof,  though  moveable  through  all  its  length 

As  the  wind  sways  it,  has  yet  well  sufEc'd, 

And,  intercepting  in  their  silent  fall 

The  frequent  flakes,  has  kept  a  path  for  me.  75 

No  noise  is  here,  or  none  that  hinders  thought 
'  The  red-breast  warbles  still,  but  is  content 

With  slender  notes,  and  more  than  half  suppress'd: 

Pleas'd  with  his  solitude,  and  flitting  light 

From  spray  to  spray,  where'er  he  rests  he  shakes     80 

From  many  a  twig  the  pendent  drops  of  ice, 

That  tinkle  in  the  wither'd  leaves  below. 

Stillness,  accompanied  With  sounds  so  soft, 
_^  Charms  more  than  silence.     Meditation  here 

May  think  down  hours  to  moments.  Here  the  heart  86 

May  give  a  useful  lesson  to  the  head, 
11* 


126  THE  TASK. 

And  Learning  wiser  grow  without  his  books. 

Knowledge  and  Wisdom,  far  from  being  one, 

Have  ofttimes  no  connexion.     Knowledge  dwells 

In  heads  replete  with  thoughts  of  other  men ;  dO 

Wisdom  in  minds  attentive  to  their  own. 

Knowledge,  a  rude  unprofitable  mass. 

The  mere  materials  with  which  Wisdom  builds, 

Till  smooth'd,  and  squar'd,  and  fitted  to  its  place, 

Does  but  encumber  whom  it  seems  t'  enrich.  95 

Knowledge  is  proud  that  he  has  learn'd  so  much ; 

Wisdom  is  humble  that  he  knows  no  more. 

Books  are  not  seldom  talismans  and  spells, 

By  which  the  raagick  art  of  shrewder  wits 

Hold  an  unthinking  multitude  enthrall'd.  100 

Some  to  the  fascination  of  a  name. 

Surrender  judgment  hood- wink 'd.     Some  the  style 

Infatuates,  and  through  labyrinths  and  wilds 

Of  errour  leads  them,  by  a  tune  entranc'd. 

While  sloth  seduces  more,  too  weak  to  bear  105 

The  insupportable  fatigue  of  thought, 

And  swallowing,  therefore,  without  pause  or  choice   , 

The  total  grist  unsifted,  husks  and  all. 

But  tree  and  rivulets,  whose  rapid  course 

Defies  the  check  of  winter,  haunts  of  deer,  110 

And  sheep-walks  populous  with  bleating  lambs. 

And  lanes,  in  which  the  primrose  ere  her  time 

Peeps  through  the  moss,  that  clothes  the  hawthorn 

root, 
Deceive  no  student.     Wisdom  there,  and  truth, 
Not  shy,  as  in  the  world,  and  to  be  won  115 

By  slow  solicitation,  seize  at  once 
The  roving  thought,  and  fix  it  on  themselves. 

What  prodigies  can  pow'r  divine  perform 
More  grand  than  it  produces  year  by  year, 
And  all  in  sight  of  inattentive  man .''  128 

Familiar  with  th'  efiect,  we  slight  the  cause, 
And  in  the  constancy  of  Nature's  course. 
The  regular  return  of  genial  months, 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.        127 

And  renovation  of  a  faded  world, 
Bee  nought  to  wonder  at.     Should  God  again,        125 
As  once  in  Gibeon,  interrupt  the  race 
Of  th'  undevlating  and  punctual  sun, 
How  would  the  world  admire  !  But  speaks  it  lem 
An  agency  divine,  to  make  him  know 
j  His  moment  when  to  sink  and  when  to  risCy  190 

Age  after  age,  than  to  arrest  his  course  ? 
All  we  behold  is  miracle  ;  but  seen 
So  duly,  all  is  miracle  in  vain. 
Where  now  the  vital  energy,  that  mov*d 
While  summer  was,  the  pure  and  subtle  lymph       135 
Through  th'  imperceptible  meand'ring  veins 
Of  leaf  and  flow'r  ?  It  sleeps  ;  and  th'  icy  touch 
Of  unprolifick  winter  has  impress'd 
A  cold  stagnation  on  th'  intestine  tide. 
But  let  the  months  go  round,  a  few  short  months,  140 
And  sill  shall  be  restor'd.     These  naked  shoots,     ► 
Barren  as  lances,  among  wliich  the  wind 
Makes  wintry  musick,  sighing  as  it  goes, 
/         Shall  put  their  graceful  foliage  on  again, 
/  And,  more  aspiring,  and  with  ampler  spread,  145 

Shall  boast  new  charms,  and  more  than  they  have  lost. 
Then  each  in  its  peculiar  honours  clad. 
Shall  publish  even  to  the  distant  eye 
Its  family  and  tribe.     Laburnum,  rich 
In  streaming  gold  ;  syringa,  iv'ry  pure;  150 

The  scentless  and  the  scented  rose  ;  this  red 
And  of  a  humbler  growth,  the  other*  tall, 
And  throwing  up  into  the  darkest  gloom 
Of  neighb'ring  cypress,  or  more  sable  yew, 
Her  silver  globes,  light  as  the  foamy  surf,  156 

That  the  wind  severs  from  the  broken  wave  ; 
The  lilack,  various  in  array,  now  white, 
*Now  sanguine,  and  her  beauteous  head  now  set 
With  purple  spikes  pyramidal,  as  if 
Btudious  of  ornament,  yet  unresolv*d  160 

*  The  Guelder  Rose, 


r 


128  THE  TASK. 

Which  hue  she  most  approv'd,  she  chose  Ihem  all  j 
Copious  of  flowers,  the  woodbine,  pale  and  wan, 
But  well  compensating  her  sickly  looks 
With  never  cloying  odours,  early  and  late ; 
Hypericum  all  bloom,  so  thick  a  swarm  165 

Of  flowers,  like  flies  clothing  her  slender  rodS| 
That  scarce  a  leaf  appears  ;  mezereon,  too, 
Though  leafless,  well-attir'd  and  thick  beset 
With  blushing  wreaths,  investing  every  spray; 
AlthsBa  with' the  purple  eye  ;  the  broom  170 

Yellow  and  bright,  as  bullion  unalloy'd, 
Her  blossoms  ;  and  luxuriant  above  all 
The  jasmine,  throwing  wide  her  elegant  sweets. 
The  deep  dark  green  of  whose  unvarnish'd  leaf 
Makes  more  conspicuous,  and  illumines  more  175 

The  bright  profusion  of  her  scatter'd  stars. — 
These  have  been,  and  these  shall  be  in  their  day , 
And  ail  this  uniform  uncolour'd  scene 
Shall  be  dismantled  of  its  fleecy  load, 
And  flush  into  variety  again.  180 

',  From  dearth  to  plenty,  and  from  death  to  life, 
■Is  Nature's  progress,  when  she  lectures  man 
in  heav'nly  truth  ;  evincing,  as  she  makes 
The  grand  transition,  that  their  lives  and  works 
A  soul  in  all  tilings,  and  that  soi^^ij  Gad.  185 

The  beauties  of  the  wilderness  are  his. 
That  maizes  so  gay  the  solitary  place, 
Where  no  eye  sees  them.     And  the  fairer  forms. 
That  cultivation  glories  in,  are  his. 
He  sets  the  bright  procession  on  its  way,  190 

And  marshals  all  the  order  of  the  year  ; 
He  marks  the  bounds,  which  winter  may  not  pass, 
And  blunts  his  pointed  fury  j  in  its  case, 
Kusset  and  rude,  folds  up  the  tender  germ, 
Uninjur'd,  with  inimitable  art ;  195» 

A.nd,  ere  one  flow'ry  season  fades  and  dies, 
Designs  the  blooming  wonders  of  the  next. 
Some  say  that  in  the  origin  of  things. 


._ :4i 


-LIFE  OF  COWPER.  51 

of  the  bed,  with  their  eyes  fixed  upon  his  dying  coun- 
tenance, the  precise  moment  of  his  departure  was  unob- 
served by  any. 

From  this  mournful  period,  till  the  features  of  his 
deceased  friend  were  closed  from  his  view,  the  expres- 
sion which  the  kinsman  of  Cowper  observed  in  them, 
and  which  he  was  affectionately  delighted  to  suppose  an 
index  of  the  last  thoughts  and  enjoyments  of  his  soul 
in  its  gradual  escape  from  the  depths  of  despondence, 
was  that  of  calmness  and  composure,  mingled,  as  it 
were,  with  holy  surprise. 

He  was  buried  in  St.  Edmund's  Chapel,  in  the  church 
of  East  Dereham,  on  Saturday  the  2d  of  May.  Over 
his  grave  a  monument  is  erected,  bearing  the  follow- 
ing inscription,  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Hay  ley . 

In  Memory 
Of  William  Cowper,  Esq. 
Born  in  Herefordshire,  1731. 
Buried  in  this  church, 
1800. 

Ye  who  with  warmth  the  pubhek  triumph  ieel 
Of  talents,  dignified  by  sacred  zeal, 
Here,  to  devotion's  bard  devoutly  just, 
Pay  your  fond  tribute  due  to  Cowper's  dust ! 
England,  exulting  in  his  spotless  fame, 
Ranks  with  her  dearest  sons  his  favorite  name  j 
Sense,  fancy,  wit,  suffice  not  all  to  raise 
So  clear  a  title  to  affection's  praise : 
His  highest  honours  to  the  heart  belong ; 
His  virt  les  formed  the  magick  of  his  song. 
Vol.  m.  6 


POEMS. 


VERSES   WRITTEN  AT  BATH, 

ON  FINDING  THE  HEEL  OF  A  SHOE. 

IN  1748. 

Fortune  !  I  thank  thee  ;  gentle  Goddess  !  thanks  ! 
Not  that  my  Muse,  though  bashful,  shall  deny, 
She  would  have  thank'd  thee  rather,  hadst  thou  cast 
A  treasure  in  her  way  ;  for  neither  meed 
Of  early  breakfast,  to  dispel  the  fumes. 
And  bowel-racking  pains  of  emptiness, 
Nor  noontide  feast,  nor  ev'ning's  cool  repast, 
Hopes  she  from  this — presumptuous,  tho',  pcihaps, 
The  cobbler,  leather-carving  artist !  might. 
Nathless  she  thanks  thee,  and  accepts  thy  boon. 
Whatever  ;  not  as  erst  the  fabled  cock, 
Vain-glorious  fool !  unknowing  what  he  found, 
Spurn 'd  the  rich  gem  thou  gav'st  him.    Wherefore,  ah! 
Why  not  on  me  that  favour,  (worthier  sure  !) 
Conferr'd'st   thou,    Goddess  !    Thou   art   blind,  thou 

say'st ; 
Enough  !    -thy  blindness  shall  excuse  the  deed. 

Nor  does  my  Muse  no  benefit  exhale 
From  this  thy  scant  indulgence  ! — even  here, 
Hints  worthy  sage  philosophy  are  found  ; 
Illustrious  hints,  to  moralize  my  song  ! 
This  pond'rous  heel  of  perforated  hide 
Compact,  with  pegs  indented,  many  a  row. 
Haply  (for  such  its  massy  form  bespeaks) 
The  weighty  tread  of  some  rude  peasant  clown 


STANZAS.  03 

Upbore  :  on  this  supported  oft,  he  stretch 'd, 
With  uncouth  strides,  along  the  furrow'd  glebe, 
Flattening  the  stubborn  clod,  till  cruel  time, 
(What  will  not  cruel  time,)  on  a  wry  step, 
Sever'd  the  strict  cohesion  ;  when,  alas  ! 
He,  who  could  erset,  with  even,  equal  pace 
Pursue  his  destin'd  way  with  symmetry, 
And  some  proportion  form'd  now,  on  one  side, 
Curtail'd  and  maim'd,  the  sport  of  vagrant  boys, 
Cursing  his  frail  supporter,  treacherous  prop  ' 
W^ith  toilsome  steps,  and  difficult,  moves  on ; 
Thus  fares  it  oft  with  other  than  the  feet 
Of  humble  villager— ^the  statesman  thus, 
Up  the  steep  road,  where  proud  ambition  leads. 
Aspiring,  first  uninterrupted  winds 
His  prosp'rous  way  ;  nor  fears  miscarriage  foul, 
While  policy  prevails,  and  friends  prove  truo . 
But  that  support  soon  failing,  by  him  left, 
On  whom  he  most  depended,  basely  left, 
Betray'd^  deserted  ;  from  his  airy  height, 
Head-long  he  falls ;  and  through  the  rest  of  life. 
Drags  the  dull  load  of  disappointment  on. 


STANZAS 


•ELECTED    FROM  AN  OCCASIONAL  ODE  ON  THE  PIRSf 
PUBLICATION  OF  SIR  CHARLES  GRANDISON, 

IN  1753. 

To  rescue  from  the  tyrant's  sword 
Th'  oppress'd ; — unseen  and  unimplor'd. 

To  cheer  the  face  of  wo ; 
From  lawless  insult  to  defend 
An  orphan's  right — a  fallen  friend. 

And  a  forgiven  foe ; 


f)4     EPISTLE  TO  ROBERT  LLOYD,  ESQ. 

These,  these  distinguish  from  the  crowd, 
And  these  along,  the  great  and  good, 

The  guardians  of  mankind  ; 
Whose  bosoms  with  these  virtues  heave, 
O,  with  what  matchless  speed,  they  leave 

The  multitude  behind  ! 

Then  ask  ye,  from  what  cause  on  earth 
Virtues  like  these  derive  their  birth, 

Deriv'd  from  Heav'n  alone, 
Full  on  that  favour'd  breast  they  shine» 
Where  faith  and  resignation  join 

To  call  the  blessing  down. 

Such  is  that  heart : — but  while  the  Muse 
Thy  theme,  O  Richardson,  pursues, 

Her  feeble  spirits  faint : 
She  cannot  reach,  and  would  not  wrong 
That  subject  of  an  angel's  song, 

The  hero,  and  the  saint  I 


AN  EPISTLE 

TO  ROBERT  LLOYD,  ESQ 

1754. 

'Tis  not  that  I  design  to  roo 
Thee  of  thy  birth-right,  gentle  Bob, 
For  thou  art  born  sole  heir,  and  single, 
Of  dear  Mat  Prior's  easy  jingle  ; 
Nor  that  I  mean,  while  thus  I  knit 
My  thread-bare  sentiments  together 
To  show  my  genius,  or  my  wit. 
When  God  and  you  know  I  have  neither  , 


EPISTLE  TO  ROBERT  LLOYD,  ESQ.     65 

Or  such,  as  might  be  better  shown 

By  letthig  poetry  alone. 

'Tis  not  with  either  of  these  views. 

That  I  presum'd  t'  address  the  Muse  : 

But  to  divert  a  fierce  banditti, 

(Sworn  foes  to  ev'ry  thing  that's  witty  !) 

That,  with  a  black,  infernal  train. 

Make  cruel  inroads  in  my  brain. 

And  daily  threaten  to  drive  thence 

My  little  garrison  of  sense  : 

The  fierce  banditti,  which  I  mean, 

Are  gloomy  thoughts,  led  on  by  Spleen. 

Then  there's  another  reason  yet. 

Which  is,  that  I  may  fairly  quit 

The  debt,  which  justly  became  due 

The  moment  when  I  heard  from  you  ; 

And  you  might  grumble,  crony  mine. 

If  paid  in  any  other  coin ; 

Since  twenty  sheets  of  lead,  God  knows, 

(I  would  say  twenty  sheets  of  prose,) 

Can  ne'er  be  deem'd  worth  half  so  much 

As  one  of  gold,  and  your  s  was  such. 

Thus,  the  preliminaries  settled, 

I  fairly  find  myself  pitch-kettled  ;* 

And  cannot  see,  though  few  see  better, 

How  I  shall  hammer  out  a  letter. 

First,  for  a  thought — since  all  agree — 
A  thought — I  have  it — ^let  me  see — 
Tis  gone  again — plague  on't !  I  thought 
I  had  it — ^but  I  have  it  not. 
Dame  Gurton  thus  and  Hodge  her  son, 
That  useful  thing,  her  needle,  gone  ! 
Rake  well  the  cinders  sweep  the  floor, 
And  sift  the  dust  behind  the  door ; 

•  Pitch-kettled,  a  favourite  phrase  at  the  time  when  this 
Epistle  was  written,  expressive  of  being  puzzled,  or  what,  iu 
the  Spectator's  time  would  have  been  called  bamboozled. 
6* 


Ce      EPISTLE  TO  ROBERl    V.LOYD,  ESQ. 

While  eager  Hodge  beholds  the  prize 

In  old  grimalkin's  glaring  ejes  ; 

And  gammer  finds  it  on  her  knees 

In  every  shining  straw  she  sees. 

This  simile  were  apt  enough  : 

But  Tve  another,  critick-proof ! 

The  virtuoso  thus  at  noon, 

Broiling  beneath  a  July  sun, 

The  gilded  butterfly  pursues, 

O'er  hedge  and  ditch,  through  gaps  and  mewf 

And  after  many  a  vain  essay, 

To  captivate  the  tempting  prey. 

Gives  him  at  length  the  lucky  pat, 

And  has  him  safe  beneath  his  hat : 

Then  lifts  it  gently  from  the  ground ; 

But  ah  !  'tis  lost  as  soon  as  found  * 

Culprit  his  liberty  regains. 

Flits  out  of  sight,  and  mocks  his  pains. 

The  sense  was  dark  ;  'twas  therefore  fit 

With  simile  t'  illustrate  it ; 

But  as  too  much  obscures  the  sight, 

As  often  as  too  little  light, 

We  have  our  similes  cut  short, 

For  matters  of  more  grave  import. 

That  Matthew's  numbers  run  with  ease 

Each  man  of  common  sense  agrees ; 

All  men  of  common  sense  allow. 

That  Robert's  lines  are  easy  too ; 

Where  then  the  prefrence  shall  we  placSj 

Or  how  do  justice  in  this  case  ? 

Matthew  (says  Fame)  with  endless  pains, 

Smooth'd  and  refin'd  the  meanest  strains. 

Nor  suffer'd  one  ill-chosen  rhyme 

T'  escape  him  at  the  idlest  time : 

And  thus  o'er  all  a  lustre  cast, 

That,  while  the  language  lives,  shall  last, 

An't  please  your  ladyship,  (quoth  I,) 

For  'tis  my  business  to  reply  : 


JOURNEY  TO  BRUNDUSIUM  67 

Sure  so  much  labour,  so  much  toil, 
Bespeak  at  least  a  stubborn  soil : 
Theirs  be  the  laurel  wreath  decreed 
Who  both  write  well,  and  write  full  speed ; 
Who  throw  their  Helicon  about 
As  freely  as  a  conduit  spout ; 
Friend  Robert,  thus  like  chien  scavant, 
Lets  fall  a  poem  en  passant, 
Nor  needs  his  genuine  ore  refine  ! 
*Tis  ready  polish*d  from  the  mine. 


THE  FIFTH  SATIRE 

OF    THE 

FIRST  BOOK  OF  HORACE. 

[^nnted  in  Duncombe's  Horace.] 

1759. 

A  humourous  Description  of  the  Author's  Journey  from 
Rome  to  Brundusium. 

'TwAS  a  long  journey  lay  before  us. 
When  I,  and  honest  Heliodorus, 
Who  far  in  point  of  rhetorick 
Surpasses  every  living  Greek, 
Each  leaving  our  respective  home, 
Together  sallied  forth  from  Rome 


08  JOURNEY  TO  BRUNDUSIUM. 

First  at  Aricia  we  alight, 
And  there  refresh,  and  pass  the  night, 
Our  entertainment  rather  coarse 
Than  sumptuous,  but  I've  met  with  worse* 
Thence  o'er  the  causeway  soft  and  fair 
To  Appiiforum  we  repair. 
But  as  this  road  is  well  supplied 
(Temptation  strong  !)  on  either  side 
With  inns  commodious,  snug,  and  warm 
We  split  the  journey,  and  perform 
In  two  days  time  what's  often  done 
By  brisker  travellers  in  one. 
Here,  rather  choosing  not  to  sup 
Than  with  bad  water  mix  my  cup, 
After  a  warm  debate,  in  spite 
Of  a  provoking  appetite, 
I  sturdily  resolv'd  at  last 
To  balk  it,  and  pronounce  a  fast, 
And  in  a  moody  humour  wait, 
While  my  less  dainty  comrades  bait 

Now  o'er  the  spangled  hemisphere 
Diffused  the  starry  train  appear, 
When  there  arose  a  desp'rate  brawl ;    - 
The  slaves  and  bargemen,  one  and  all, 
Rending  their  throats  (have  mercy  on  us) 
As  if  they  were  resolved  to  stun  us,) 
*'  Steer  the  barge  this  way  to  the  shore  ; 
I  tell  you  we'll  admit  no  more  ; 
Plague  !  will  you  never  be  content  ?'* 
Thus  a  whole  hour  at  least  is  spent, 
While  they  receive  the  sev'ral  fares, 
And  kick  the  mule  into  his  gears. 
Happy,  these  difficulties  past. 
Could  we  have  fall'n  asleep  at  last ' 
But,  what  with  humming,  croaking,  biting, 
Gnats,  frogs,  and  all  their  plagues  uniting, 
These  tuneful  natives  of  the  lake 


JOURNEY  TO  BRUNDUSIUM.  69 

Conspir'd  to  keep  us  broad  awake. 
Besides  to  make  the  concert  full, 
Two  maudlin  wights,  exceeding  dull, 
The  Bargeman  and  a  passenger, 
Each  in  his  turn,  essay 'd  an  air 
In  honour  of  his  absent  fair. 
At  length  .the  passenger,  opprest 
With  wine,  left  off,  and  snor'd  the  rest. 
The  weary  bargeman  too  gave  o'er, 
And  hearing  his  companion  snore, 
Seiz'd  the  occasion,  fix'd  the  barge, 
Turn'd  out  his  mule  to  graze  at  large, 
And  slept  forgetful  of  his  charge. 
And  now  the  sun  o'er  eastern  hill, 
Disoover'd  that  our  barge  stood  still ; 
When  one,  whose  anger  vex'd  him  sore. 
With  malice  fraught,  leaps  quick  on  shore ; 
Plucks  up  a  stake,  with  many  a  thwack 
Assails  the  mule  and  driver's  back. 

Then  slowly  moving  on  with  pain. 
At  ten  Feronia's  stream  we  gain. 
And  in  hor  pure  and  glassy  wave 
Our  hands  and  faces  gladly  lave. 
Climbing  three  miles,  fair  Anxur'a  height 
We  reach,  with  stony  quarries  white. 
While  here,  as  was  agreed  we  wait. 
Till,  charg'd  with  business  of  the  state, 
McBcenas  and  Cocceius,  come. 
The  messengers  of  peace  from  Rome 
My  eyes,  by  wat'ry  humours  blear 
And  sore,  I  with  black  balsam  smear. 
At  length  they  join  us,  and  with  them 
Our  worthy  friend  Fonteius  came  ; 
A  man  of  such  complete  desert, 
Antony  lov'd  him  at  his  heart. 
At  Fundi,  we  refus'd  to  bait, 
And  laugh'd  at  vain  Aufidius'  state, 


70  JOURNEY  TO  BRUNDUSIUM. 

A  prretor  now,  a  scribe  before, 
The  purple-bojder'd  ;obe  he  wore, 
His  slave  the  smoking  censer  bore. 
Tir'd,  at  Muraena's  we  repose, 
At  Formia  sup  at  Capito's. 

With  smiles  the  rising  morn  we  greet, 
At  Sinuessa  pleas'd  to  meet 
With  Plotius,  Varius,  and  the  bard 
Whom  Mantua,  first  with  wonder  heard. 
The  world  no  purer  spirits  knows ; 
For  none  my  heart  more  warmly  glows 
O  !  what  embraces  we  bestow'd, 
And  with  what  joy  our  breasts  o'erflow'd 
Sure,  while  my  sense  is  sound  and  clear, 
Long  as  I  live,  I  shall  prefer 
A  gay,  good  natur'd,  easy  friend, 
To  every  blessing  Heav'n  can  send. 
At  a  small  village  the  next  night 
Near  tlie  Vulturnus  we  alight ; 
Where,  as  employed  on  state  affairs, 
We  were  supply 'd  by  the  purveyors 
Frankly  at  once,  and  without  hire, 
With  food  for  man  and  horse,  and  fire. 
'Capua  next  day  betimes  we  reach, 
Where  Virgil  and  myself,  who  each 
Labour'd  with  different  maladies. 
His  such  a  stomach,  mine  such  eyes, 
As  would  not  bear  strong  exercise. 
In  drowsy  mood  to  sleep  resort ; 
MaBcenas  to  the  tennis-court. 
Next  at  Cocceius's  farm  we're  treated, 
Above  the  caudian  tavern  seated  ; 
His  kind  and  hospitable  board 
With  choice  of  wholesome  food  was  star'dL 

Now,  O  ye  nine,  inspire  my  lays ! 
To  nobler  themes  my  fancy  rise  ' 


JOURNEY  TO  BRUNDUSIUM.  71 

Two  combatants,  who  scorn  to  yield 

The  noisy,  tongue-disputed  field, 

Sarmentus  and  Cicirrus,  claim 

A  poet's  tribute  to  their  fame  ; 

Cicirrus  of  true  Oscian  breed, 

Sarmentus,  who  was  never  freed, 

But  ran  away.     We  don't  defame  him , 

His  lady  lives,  and  still  may  claim  him. 

Thus  dignified,  in  harder  fray 

These  champions  their  keen  wit  display, 

And  first  Sarmentus  led  the  way. 

"  Thy  locks,  (quoth  he  so  rough  and  coarse, 

Look  like  the  mane  of  some  wild  horse," 

We  laugh  :  Cicirrus,  undismayed — 

"  Have  at  you  !" — cries,  and  shakes  his  head 

"  'Tis  well  (Sarmentus  says)  you've  lost 

That  horn  your  forehead  once  could  boast ; 

Since,  maim'd  and  mangled  as  you  are, 

You  seem  to  butt."     A  hideous  scar 

Improv'd  ('tis  true)  with  double  grace 

The  native  horrours  of  his  face. 

Well.     After  much  jocosely  said 

Of  his  grim  front,  so  fi'ry  red, 

(For  Carbuncles  had  blotch'd  it  o'er, 

As  usual  on  Campania's  shore) 

"  Give  us,  (he  cried)  since  you're  so  big 

A  sample  of  the  Cyclop's  jig  ! 

Your  jshanks  methinks  no  buskins  ask, 

Nor  does  your  phiz  require  a  mask." 

To  this  Cicirrus.     "  In  return 

Of  you.  Sir,  now  I  fain  would  learn, 

When  'twas,  no  longer  deem'd  a  slave, 

Your  chains  you  to  the  Lares  gave. 

For  tho'  a  scriv'ner's  right  you  claim, 

Your  lady's  title  is  the  same. 

But  what  could  make  you  run  away, 

Since,  pigmy  as  you  are,  each  day 


72  JOURNEY  TO  BRUNDUSItTM. 

A  single  pound  of  bread  would  quite 
O'erpow'r  your  puny  appetite  !" 
Thus  jok'd  the  champions,  while  we  laugh'd, 
And  many  a  cheerful  bumper  quaff 'd. 

To  Bencventom  next  we  steer , 
Where  our  good  host,  by  over  care 
In  roasting  thrushes  lean  as  mice, 
Had  almost  fall'n  a  sacrifice. 
The  kitchen  soon  was  all  on  fire, 
And  to  the  roof  the  flames  aspire. 
There  might  you  see  each  man  and  master 
Striving,  amidst  this  sad  disaster, 
To  save  the  supper     Then  they  came 
With  speed  enough  to  quench  the  flame. 
From  hence  we  first  at  distance  see 
Th'  Apulian  hills,  well  known  to  me, 
Parch'd  by  the  sultry  western  blast, 
And  which  we  never  should  have  past. 
Had  not  Trivicius  by  the  way 
Receiv'd  us  at  the  close  of  day. 
But  each  was  forc'd  at  ent'ring  here 
To  pay  the  tribute  of  a  tear. 

For  more  of  smoke  than  fire  was  seen 

The  hearth  was  pil'd  with  logs  so  green. 

From  hence  in  chaises  we  were  carried 

Miles  twenty-four,  and  gladly  tarried 

At  a  small  town,  whose  name  my  verso 

(So  barb'rous  is  it)  can't  rehearse. 

Know  it  you  may  by  many  a  sign, 

Water  is  dearer  far  than  wine. 

Their  bread  is  deem'd  such  dainty  fare, 

That  ev'ry  prudent  traveller 

His  wallet  loads  with  many  a  crust 

For  at  Canusium  you  might  just 

As  well  attempt  to  gnaw  a  stone 

As  think  to  get  a  morsel  down ; 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.        129 

I  When  all  creation  started  into  birth, 
I  The  infant  elements  receiv'd  a  law  200 

/  From  which  ihey  swerv'd  not  since.  That  under  force 
/  Of  that  controlling  ordinance  they  move, 
And  need  not  His  immediate  hand  who  first 
Prescrib'd  their  course,  to  regulate  it  now.  " 

Thus  dream  they,  and  contrive  to  save  a  God         205 
Th*  encumbrance  of  his  own  concerns,  and  spare 
The  great  artificer  of  all  that  moves 
The  stress  of  a  continual  act,  the  pain 
Of  unremitted  vigilance  and  care, 
As  too  laborious  and  severe  a  task.  210 

So  man,  the  moth,  is  not  afraid,  it  seems, 
To  span  omnipotence^  and  measure  might 
That  knows  no  measure,  by ,tlie  scanty  rule 
And  standard  of  his  own,  that  is  to-v'lay, 
And  is  not  ere  to-morrow's  sun  go  down.  315 

But  how  should  matter  occupy  a  charge, 
Dull  as  it  is,  and  satisfy  a  law 
So  vast  in  its  demands,  unless  impell'd 
5  To  ceaseless  service  by  a  ceaseless  force. 
And  under  pressure  of  some  conscious  cause  ?         220 
The  Lord  of  all,  himself  through  all  diffus'd,      i 
Sustains,  and  is  the  life  of  all  that  lives.  ( 

Nature  is  but  a  name  for  an  effect. 
Whose  cause  is  God.     He  f^eds  the  secret  fire, 
By  which  the  mighty  process  is  maintained,  225 

Who  sleeps  not,  is  not  weary  ;  in  whose  sight 
Slow  circling  ages  are  as  transient  days ; 
Whose  work  is  without  labour  ;  whose  designs 
No  flaw  deforms,  no  difficulty  thwarts  ; 
And  whose  beneficence  no  charge  exhausts.  230 

Him  blind  antiquity  profan'd,  not  serv'd, 
With  self-taught  rites,  and  under  various  names, 
Female  and  male,  Pomona,  Pales,  Pan, 
And  Flora,  and  Vertumnus  \  peopling  earth 
With  tutelary  goddesses  and  gods,  23c 

That  were  not ;  and  commending  as  they  would 


130  THE  TASK. 

To  each  some  province,  garden,  field,  or  grove. 
But  all  are  under  one.     One  spirit — His 
Who  wore  the  platted  thorns  with  bleeding  brows- 
Rules  universal  nature.     Not  a  flower      :-  240 
But  shows  some  touch,  in  freckle,  streak,  or  stain^ 
Of  his  unrivall'd  pencil.     He  inspires 
Their  balmy  odours,  and  imparts  their  hues, 
And  bathes  their  eyes  with  nectar,  and  includes, 
In  grains  as  countless  as  the  seaside  sands,  S45 
The  forms  with  which  he  sprinkles  all  the  earth. 
Happy  who  walks  with  him !  whom  what  he  findg 
Of  flavour  or  of  scent  in  fruit  or  flower, 
Of  what  he  views  of  beautiful  or  grand 
In  nature,  from  the  broad  majestick  oak  250 
To  the  green  blade  that  twinkles  in  the  sun, 
Prompts  with  remembrance  of  a  present  God 
His  presence,  who  made  all  so  fair,  perceiv'd. 
Makes  all  still  fairer ,    As  with  him  no  scene 
Is  dreary,  so  with  him  all  seasons  please.  255 
Though  winter  had  been  /lone,  had  man  been  true 
And  earth  be  punish'd  for  its  tenant's  sake. 
Yet  not  in  vengeance  ;  as  this  smiling  sky, 
So  soon  succeeding  such  an  angry  night. 
And  these  dissolving  snows,  and  this  clear  stream  260 
Recovering  fast  its  liquid  musick,  prove. 

Who,  then,  that  has  a  mind  well  strung  and  tun  d 
To  contemplation,  and  within  his  reach 
A  scene  so  friendly  to  his  fav'rite  task. 
Would  waste  attention  at  the  checker'd  board.        265 
His  host  of  wooden  warriours  to  and  fro 
Marching  and  countermarching,  with  an  cyo 
As  fix'd  as  marble,  with  a  forehead  ridg'd 
And  furrow'd  into  storms,  and  with  a  hand 
Trembling,  as  if  eternity  were  hung  270 

In  balance  on  his  conduct  of  a  pin .'' 
Nor  envies  he  aught  more  their  idle  sport, 
Who  pant  with  application  misapplied 
To  trivial  toys,  and,  pushing  iv'ry  balls 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.       131 
Across  a  velvet  level,  feel  a  joy  275 

Akin  to  rapture,  when  the  bauble  finds 
Its  destin'd  goal,  of  difficult  access. 
Nor  deems  he  wiser  him,  who  gives  his  noon 
To  miss,  the  mercer's  plague  from  shop  to  shop 
WandVing,  and  litt'ring  with  unfolded  silks  280 

The  polish'd  counter,  and  approving  none, 
Or  promising  with  smiles  to  call  again. 
Nor  him,  who  by  his  vanity  seduc'd. 
And  sooth'd  into  a  dream,  that  he  discerns 
The  diffrence  of  a-  Guido  from  a  daub,  885 

Frequents  the  crowded  auction  :  station'd  there 
As  duly  as  the  Langford  of  the  show, 
With  glass  at  eye,  and  catalogue  in  hand, 
And  tongue  accomplish'd  in  the  fulsome  cant 
And  pedantry  that  coxcombs  learn  with  ease  t        29(K 
Oft  as  the  price-deciding  hammer  falls, 
He  notes  it  in  his  book,  then  raps  his  box, 
Swears  'tis  a  bargain,  rails  at  his  hard  fate, 
That  he  has  let  it  pass — ^but  never  bids ! 

Here  unmolested,  through  whatever  sign  295 

The  sun  proceeds,  I  wander.    Neither  mist, 
Nor  freezing  sky  nor  sultry,  checking  me, 
Nor  stranger  intermeddling  with  my  joy. 
E'en  in  the  spring  and  playtime  of  the  yeai^ 
That  calls  the  unwonted  villager  abroad  800 

With  all  her  little  ones,  a  sportive  train. 
To  gather  kingcups  in  the  yellow  mead, 
And  prink  their  hair  with  daisies,  or  to  pick 
A  cheap  but  wholesome  salad  from  the  brook — 
Ti-cse  shades  are  all  my  own.     The  tim'rous  hare, 
Grown  so  familia-i'  with  her  frequent  guest,  306 

Scarce  shuns  me  ;  and  the  stock-dove,  unalarm'd, 
Sits  cooing  in  the  pinetree,  nor  suspends 
His  long  ]i)ve  dittv  for  my  near  approach. 
Drawn  from  his  refuge  in  soiiic  lonely  ch^.  316 

Tiutt  ago  or  injury  has  hoUow'd  deep, 
Wliori*,  on  j*is  bcil  of  wool  and  rnattcd  leavet, 


132  THE  TASK. 

He  has  outslept  the  winter,  ventures  forth. 

To  frisk  awhile,  and  bask  in  the  warm  sun, 

The  squirrel,  flippant,  pert,  and  full  of  play  ;  315 

He  sees  me,  and  at  once,  swift  as  a  bird, 

Ascends  the  neighboring  beech ;  there  whisks  his  bnudij 

And  perks  his  ears,  and  stamps,  and  cries  aloud| 

With  all  the  prettiness  of  feign'd  alarm, 

And  anger  insignificantly  fierce.  3S0 

The  heart  is  hard  in  nature,  and  unfit 
For  human  fellowship,  as  being  void 
Of  sympathy,  and  therefore  dead  alike 
To  love  and  friendship  both,  that  is  not  pleased 
With  sight  of  animals  enjoying  life,  325 

^^or  feels  their  happiness  augment  his  own. 

■  The  bounding  fawn,  that  darts  across  the  glade 
When  none  pursues,  through  mere  delight  of  heart 
And  spirits  buoyant  with  excess  of  glee ; 
The  horse  as  wanton,  and  almost  as  fleet,  330 

That  skims  the  spacious  meadow  at  full  speed, 
Then  stops,  and  snorts,  and,  throwing  high  his  heels, 
Starts  to  the  voluntary  race  again ; 
The  very  kine  that  gambol  at  high  noon. 
The  total  herd  receiving  first  from  one,  335 

That  leads  the  dance,  a  summons  to  be  gay, 
Though  wild  their  strange  vagaries,  and  uncouth 
Their  efibrts,  yet  resolv'd,  with  one  consent, 
To  give  such  act  and  utt'rance  as  they  may 
To  ecstasy  too  big  to  be  suppress'd —  340 

These,  and  a  thousand  images  of  bliss. 
With  which  kind  Nature  graces  ev'ry  scene. 
Where  cruel  man  defeats  not  her  design. 
Impart  to  the  benevolent,  who  wish 
All  that  are  capable  of  pleasure  pleas'd,  345 

A  far  superiour  happiness  to  theirs. 

The  comfort  of  a  reaamxable  joy^ ~~ — "' 

.   "      Man  scarce  had  ris'n,  obedient  to  his  call 

Who  form'd  him  from  the  dust,  his  future  grave, 
When  he  was  crown'd  as  never  king  was  since.      350 


r:ti 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.       133 

God  set  the  diadem  upon  his  head, 
And  angel  choirs  attended.     Wond'ring  stood 
The  new-made  monarch,  while  before  him  pass'd, 
All  happy,  and  all  perfect  in  their  kind, 
The  crea.ture£!,  summon'd  from  their  various  hattnts, 
To  see  their  sov'reign,  and  confess  his  sway.  ^56 

Vast  was  his  empire,  absolute  his  pow'r, 
Or  bounded  only  by  a  law,  whose  force 
'Twas  his  sublimest  privilege  to  feel 
And  own — the  law  of  universal  lovO;.  360 

He  rul'd  with  meekness,  they  obey'd  with  joy  ; 
No  cruel  purpose  lurk'd  within  his  heaxt. 
And  no  distrust  of  his  intent  in  theirs. 
So  Eden  was  a  scene  of  harmless  sport, 
Where  kindness  on  his  part  who  rul'd  the  whole,   365 
Begat  a  tranquil  confidence  in  all, 
And  fear  as  yet  was  not,  nor  cause  for  fear. 
But  sin  marr'd  all ;  and  the  revolt  of  man, 
That  source  of  evils  not  exhausted  yet. 
Was  punish'd  with  revolt  of  his  from  him.  370 

Garden  of  God,  how  terrible  the  change 
Thy  groves  and  lawns  then  witness'd !  Ev'ry  heart, 
Each  animal,  of  ev'ry  name,  conceiv'd 
A  jealousy  and  an  instinctive  fear, 
And,  conscious  of  some  danger,  either  fled  375 

Precipitate  the  loath'd  abode  of  man. 
Or  growl'd  defiance  in  such  angry  sort, 
As  taught  him  too  to  tremble  in  his  turn. 
Thus  harmony  and  family  accord 
Were  driv'n  from  Paradise  ;  and  in  that  hour         380 
The  seeds  of  cruelty,  that  since  have  swell'd 
To  such  gigantick  and  enormous  growth. 
Were  sown  in  human  nature's  fruitful  soil. 
Hence  date  the  persecution  and  the  pain. 
That  man  inflicts  on  all  inferiour  kinds,  58.5 

Regardless  of  their  plaints.     To  make  him  sporty 
To  gratify  the  frenzy  of  his  wrath. 
Or  his  base  gluttony,  are  causes  good 
Vol.  II.  12 


^^ 


134  THE  TASK. 

And  just  in  his  account,  why  bird  and  beast 

Should  suffer  torture,  and  the  streams  be  died         390 

With  blood  of  their  inhabitants  impal'd. 

Earth  groans  beneath  the  burden  of  a  war 

Wag'd  with  defenceless  innocence,  while  he, 

Not  satisfied  to  prey  on  all  around, 

Adds  tenfold  bitterness  to  death  by  pangs  395 

Needless,  and  first  torments  ere  he  devours. 

Now  happiest  they  that  occupy  the  scenes 

The  most  remote  from  his  abhorr'd  resort, 

Whom  once,  as  delegate  of  God  on  earth, 

They  fear'd,  and  as  his  perfect  image,  lov*d.  400 

The  wilderness  is  theirs,  with  all  its  caves, 

Its  hollow  glens,  its  thickets,  and  its  plains, 

Unvisited  by  man.     There  they  are  free, 

And  howl  and  roar  as  likes  them,  uncontroU'd  j 

Nor  ark  his  leave  to  slumber  or  to  play.  405 

Wo  to  the  tyrant,  if  he  dare  intrude 

Within  the  confines  of  their  wild  domain : 

The  lion  tells  him — I  am  monarch  here — 

And  if  he  spare  him,  spares  him  on  the  terms 

Of  royal  mercy,  and  through  gen'rous  scorn  410 

To  rend  a  victim  trembling  at  his  foot. 

In  measure,  as  by  force  of  instinct  drawn, 

Or  by  necessity  constrained,  they  live 

Dependent  upon  man  ;  those  in  his  fields. 

These  at  his  crib,  and  some  beneath  his  roof.  415 

They  prove  too  often  at  how  dear  a  rate 

He  sells  protection— ^Witness  at  his  foot 

The  spaniel  dying  for  some  venial  fault 

Under  dissection  of  the  knotted  scourge ; 

Witness  the  patient  ox,  with  stripes  and  yells         430 

Driv*n  to  the  slaughter,  goaded,  as  he  runs, 

To  madness ;  while  the  savage  at  his  heels 

Laughs  at  the  frantick  sufTrer's  fury,  spent 

Upon  the  guiltless  passenger  o'erthrown. 

Ho  too  is  witness,  noblest  of  the  train  435 

That  wait  on  man.  the  flight-ner forming  horse  * 


M 


i| 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.       13S 

With  unsuspecting  readiness  he  takes 

His  murd'rer  on  his  back,  and,  push'd  all  day 

With  bleeding  sides  and  flanks  that  heave  for  life, 

To  the  far  distant  goal  arrives  and  dies.  430 

So  little  mercy  shows  who  needs  so  much  I 

Does  law,  so  jealous  in  the  cause  of  man, 

Denounce  no  doom  on  the  delinquent  ?  None. 

He  lives  and  o'er  his  brimming  beaker  boasts 

(As  if  barbarity  were  high  desert,)  435 

Th'  inglorious  feat,  and  clamorous  in  praise 

Of  the  poor  brute,  seems  wisely  to  suppose 

The  honours  of  his  matchless  horse  his  own. 

But  many  a  crime,  deem'd  innocent  on  earth, 

Is  register'd  in  Heav'n  ;  and  these  no  doubt,  440 

Have  each  their  record,  with  a  curse  annex'd. 

Man  may  dismiss  compassion  from  his  heart, 

But  God  will  never.     When  he  charg'd  the  Jew 

T'  assist  his  foe's  down-fallen  beast  to  rise  ; 

And  when  the  bush-exploring  boy,  that  seiz'd  445 

The  young,  to  let  the  parent  bird  go  free  ; 

Prov'd  he  not  plainly,  that  his  meaner  works 

Are  yet  liis  care,  and  have  an  int'rest  all, 

All,  in  the  universal  Father's  love  ? 

On  Noah,  and  in  him  on  all  mankind,  450 

The  charter  was  conferr'd  by  which  we  hold 

The  flesh  of  animals  in  fee,  and  claim 

O'er  all  we  feed  on  pow'r  of  life  and  death. 

But  read  the  instrument,  and  mark  it  well : 

Th'  oppression  of  a  tyrannous  control  455 

Can  find  no  warrant  there.     Feed  then,  and  yield, 

Thanks  for  thy  food.     Carnivorous,  through  sin, 

Feed  on  the  slain,  but  spare  the  living  brute  ? 

The  Governor  of  all,  himself  to  all 
fio  bountiful,  in  whose  attentive  ear  460 

The  unfledg'd  raven  and  the  lion's  whelp 
Plead  not  in  vain  for  pity  on  the  pangs 
Of  hunger  unassuag'd,  has  interpos'd. 
Not  seldom,  his  avenging  arm,  to  smite 


130  THE  TASK. 

Th'  injurious  trampler  upon  Nature's  law,  463 

That  claims  forbearance  even  for  a  brute. 

He  hates  the  hardness  of  a  Balaam's  heart ; 

And,  prophet  as  he  was,  he  might  not  strike 

The  blameless  animal,  without  rebuke, 

On  which  he  rode.     Her  opportune  offence  470 

Sav'd  him,  or  the  unrelenting  seer  had  died. 

He  sees  that  human  equity  is  slack 

To  interfere,  though  in  so  just  a  cause  : 

And  makes  the  task  his  own.     Inspiring  dumb 

And  helpless  victims  with  a  sense  so  keen  475 

Of  injury,  with  such  knowledge  of  their  strength 

And  such  sagacity  to  take  revenge, 

That  oft  the  beast  has  seem'd  to  judge  the  man. 

An  ancient,  not  a  legendary  tale. 

By  one  of  sound  intelligence  rehears'd,  48ff 

(If  such  who  plead  for  Providence  may  seem 

In  modern  eyes,)  shall  make  the  doctrine  clear. 

Where  England,  stretch'd  towards  the  setting  sun, 
Narrow  and  long,  o'erlooks  the  western  wave, 
Dwelt  young  Misagathus ;  a  scorner  ho  485 

Of  God  and  goodness,  atheist  in  ostent. 
Vicious  in  act,  in  temper  savage-fierce. 
He  journey 'd :  and  his  chance  was,  as  he  went, 
To  join  a  trav'Uer,;  of  far  different  note, 
Evander,  fam'd  for  piety,  for  years  490 

Deserving  honour,  but  for  wisdom  more. 
Fame  had  not  left  the  venerable  man 
A  stranger  to  the  manners  of  the  youth. 
Whose  face,  too,  was  familiar  to  his  view. 
Their  way  was  on  the  margin  of  the  land,  495 

O'er  the  green  summit  of  the  rocks,  whose  base 
Beats  back  the  roaring  surge,  scarce  heard  so  high. 
The  charity  that  warm'd  his  heart,  was  mov'd 
At  sight  of  the  man-monster.     With  a  smile 
Gentle  and  affable,  and  full  of  grace,  500 

As  fearful  of  offending  whom  he  wish'd 
Much  to  persuade,  he  plied  his  ear  with  truths 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.        137 

Not  liarldly  thunder'd  forth,  or  rudely  press'd, 
But,  like  his  purpose,  gracious,  kind,  and  sweet 
"  And  dost  thou  dream,"  th'  impenetrable  man        506 
Exclaim'd,  "  that  me  the  lullabies  of  age, 
And  fantasies  of  dotards,  such  as  thou, 
Can  cheat,  or  move  a  moment's  fear  in  me  ? 
Mark  now  the  proof  I  give  thee,  that  the  brave 
Need  no  such  aids  as  superstition  lends  610 

"  To  steel  their  hearts  against  the  dread  of  death/ 
He  spoke,  and  to  the  precipice  at  hand 
Push'd  with  a  madman's  fury.     Fancy  shrinks, 
And  the  blood  thrills  and  curdles  at  the  thought 
Of  such  a  gulf  as  he  design'd  his  grave.  515 

But  though  the  felon  on  his  back  could  dare 
The  dreadful  leap,  more  rational,  his  steed 
Declin'd  the  death,  and  wheeling  swiftly  round. 
Or  ere  his  hoof  had  press'd  the  crumbling  verge. 
Baffled  his  rider,  sav'd  against  his  will.  520 

The  frenzy  of  the  brain  may  be  redress'd 
By  med'cine  well  applied,  but  without  grace 
The  heart's  insanity  admits  no  cure. 
Enrag'd  the  more,  by  what  might  have  reform 'd 
His  horrible  intent,  again  he  sought  525 

Destruction,  with  a  zeal  to  be  destroy'd, 
With  sounding  whip,  and  rowels  died  in  blood, 
But  still  in  vain.     The  Providence  that  meant 
A  longer  date  to  the  far  nobler  beast, 
Spar'd  yet  again  th'  ignobler  for  his  sake.  530 

And  now,  his  prowess  prov'd,  and  his  sincere 
Incurable  obduracy  evinc'd. 

His  rage  grew  cool,  and,  pleas'd  perhaps  t'  have  earn'd 
So  cheaply,  the  renown  of  that  attempt, 
With  looks  of  some  complacence  he  resura'd  535 

His  road,  deriding  much  the  blank  amaze 
Of  good  Evander,  still  where  he  was  left 
JFix'd  motionless,  and  petrified  with  dread. 
So  on  they  far'd.     Discourse  on  other  themes 
Ensuing  seem'd  t'  obliterate  the  past ;  540 

12* 


B  THE  TASK.. 

And  tamer  ikr  for  so  much  fury  shown, 
(As  is  the  course  of  rash  and  fiery  men,) 
The  rude  companion  smil'd,  as  if  transformed — 
But  'twas  a  transient  calm.     A  storm  was  near 
An  unsuspected  storm.     His  hour  was  come.  545 

The  impious  challenger  of  Pow'r  divine 
Was  now  to  learn,  that  Heav'n,  though  slow  to  wrath, 
Is  never  with  impunity  defied. 
His  horse,  as  he  had  caught  his  master's  mood, 
Snorting,  and  starting  into  sudden  rage,  550 

Unbidden,  and  not  now  to  be  controll'd, 
Rush'd  to  the  cliff,  and,  having  reach'd  it,  stood. 
At  once  the  shock  unseated  him :  he  flew 
Sheer  o'er  the  craggy  barrier  ;  and  immers'd 
Deep  in  the  flood,  found,  when  he  sought  it  not,     555 
The  death  he  had.  deserv'd,  and  died  alone. 
So  God  wrought  double  justice  ;  made  the  fool 
The  victim  of  his  own  tremendous  choice, 
And  taught  a  brute  the  way  to  safe  revenge. 

I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends,  560 

(Though  grac'd  with  polish'd  manners  and  fine  sense, 
Yet  wanting  sensibi'lity,)  the  man 
Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm. 
An  inadvertent  step  may  crush  the  snail 
That  crawls  at  ev'ning  in  the  publick  path  ;  565 

But  he  that  has  humanity,  forewarn'd, 
Will  tread  aside,  and  let  the  reptile  live. 
The  creeping  vermin,  loathsome  to  the  sight. 
And  charg'd  perhaps  with  venom,  that  intrudef, 
A  visitor  unwelcome,  into  scenes  670 

Sacred  to  neatness  and  repose,  th'  alcove. 
The  chamber,  or  refectory,  may  die  : 
A  necessary  act  incurs  no  blame. 
Not  so  when,  held  within  their  proper  bounds, 
And  guiltless  of  offence,  they  range  the  air,  575 

Or  take  their  pastime  in  the  spacious  field  : 
There  they  are  privileg'd  ;  and  he  that  hunts 
Or  harms  them  there  is  guilty  of  a  wrong, 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.        139 
Disturbs  the  economy  of  Nature's  realm, 
Who,  when  she  form'd,  design'd  them  an  abode.     580 
The  sura  is  this  :  If  man's  convenience,  health, 
Or  safety,  interfere,  his  rights  and  claims 
Are  paramount,  and  must  extinguish  theirs. 
Else  they  are  aU — the  meanest  things  that  aretM** 
As  free  to  live,  and  to  enjoy  that  life,  585 

As  God  was  free  to  form  them  at  the  first, 
Who  in  his  sov'reign  wisdom  made  them  alL 
Ye,  therefore,  who  love  mercy,  teach  your  sons 
To  love  it  too.     The  spring  time  of  our  years 
Is  soon  dishonour'd  and  defil'd  in  most  600 

By  budding  ills,  that  ask  a  prudent  hand 
To  check  them.     But,  alas  !  none  sooner  shootSi 
If  unrestrain'd,  into  luxuriant  growth. 
Than  cruelty,  most  dev'lish  of  them  all. 
Mercy  to  him  that  shows  it,  is  the  rule  595 

And  righteous  limitation  of  its  act, 
By  which  Heav'n  moves  in  pard'ning  guilty  man  *, 
And  he  that  shows  none,  being  ripe  in  years, 
And  conscious  of  the  outrage  he  commits, 
Shall  seek  it,  and  not  find  it,  in  his  turn.  600 

Distinguish'd  much  by  reason,  and  still  more 
By  our  capacity  of  grace  divine, 
From  creatures,  that  exist  but  for  our  sake, 
Which  having  serv'd  us,  perish,  we  are  held 
Accountable  ;  and  God  some  future  day  605 

Will  reckon  with  us  roundly  for  th'  abuse 
Of  what  he  deems  no  mean  nor  trivial  trust. 
Superiour  as  we  are,  they  yet  depend 
Not  more  on  human  help  than  we  on  theirs. 
Their  strength,  or  speed,  or  vigilance,  were  giv*n  610 
In  aid  of  our  defects.     In  some  are  found 
Such  teachable  and  apprehensive  parts, 
That  man's  attainments  in  his  own  concerns, 
Match'd  with  th'  expertness  of  the  brutes  in  theirs. 
Are  ofttimes  vanquish'd  and  thrown  far  behind.       615 
Bome  show  that  nice  sagacity  of  smoU, 


1 1  (40  THE  TASK 

i  I  And  read  with  such  discernment,  :'n  the  port 

And  figure  of  the  man,  his  secret  aim, 
That  oft  we  owe  our  safety  to  a  skill 
We  could  not  teach,  and  must  despair  to  learn.       52ti 
But  learn  we  might,  if  not  too  proud  to  stoop 
To  quadruped  instructers  many  a  good 
And  useful  quality,  and  virtue  too. 
Rarely  exemplified  among  ourselves. 
Attachment  never  to  be  wean'd,  or  chang'd  625 

liy  any  cliange  of  fortune  :  proof  alike 
Against  unkindness,  absence,  and  neglect; 
Fidelity,  that  neither  bribe  nor  threat 
Can  move  or  warp ;  and  gratitude  for  small 
'lid  trivial  favours,  lasting  as  the  life,  630 

nd  glist'ning  even  in  the  dying  eye. 
Man  praises  man.     Desert  in  arts  or  arms 
Wins  publick  honour  ;  and  ten  thousand  sit 
Patiently  present  at  a  sacred  song. 
Commemoration  mad  ;  content  to  hear  635 

(O  wonderful  effect  of  musick's  power !) 
Messiah's  eulogy  for  Handel's  sake  ! 
But  less,  methinks,  than  sacrilege  might  serve— 
(For,  was  it  less,  what  heathen  would  have  dar'd 
To  strip  Jove's  statue  of  his  oaken  wreath,  640 

And  hang  it  up  in  honour  of  a  man  ?) 
Much  less  might  serve,  when  all  that  we  design 
Is  but  to  grati'fy  an  itching  ear. 
And  give  the  day  to  a  musician's  praise. 
Remember  Handel  ?     Who,  that  was  not  born        645 
Deaf  as  the  dead  to  harmony,  forgets. 
Or  can,  the  more  than  Homer  of  his  age  ? 
Yes — ^we  remember  hira ;  and  while  we  praise 
A  talent  so  divine,  remember  too 
That  His  most  holy  book  from  whom  it  came  65C 

Was  never  meant,  was  never  us'd  before, 
To  buckram  out  the  mem'ry  of  a  man. 
But  hush  !— the  Muse  perhaps  is  too  severe 
And  with  a  gravity  beyond  the  size 


THE  WINTER  WALK  Al   NOON.        141 

And  measure  of  th'  oiTence,  rebukes  a  deed  655 

Less  impious  than  absurd,  and  owing  more 

To  want  of  judgment  than  to  wrong  design 

So  in  the  chapel  of  old  Ely  House, 

When  wand'ring  Charles,  who  meant  to  be  the  third, 

Had  fled  from  William,  and  the  news  was  fresh,      660 

The  simple  clerk,  but  loyal,  did  announce, 

And  eke  did  roar  right  merrily,  two  staves. 

Sung  to  the  praise  and  glory  of  King  George ! 

— Man  praises  man :  and  Garrick's  mem*ry  next. 

When  time  hath  somewhat  mellow'd  it,  and  made  665 

The  idol  of  our  worship  while  he  liv'd 

The  God  of  our  idolatry  once  more, 

Shall  have  its  altar  ;  and  the  world  shall  go 

In  pilgrimage  to  bow  before  his  shrine. 

The  theatre  too  small,  shall  suffocate  670 

Its  squeez'd  contents,  and  more  than  it  admits 

Shall  sigh  at  their  exclusion,  and  return 

Ungratified  ;  for  there  some  noble  lord 

Shall  stuff  his  shoulders  with  King  Richard's  bunch, 

Or  wrap  himself  in  Hamlet's  inlty  cloak,  675 

And  strut,  and  storm,  and  straddle,  stamp,  and  stUrtt, 

To  show  the  world  how  Garrick  did  not  act. 

For  Garrick  was  a  worshipper  himself; 

He  drew  the  liturgy,  and  fram'd  the  rites 

And  solemn  ceremonial  of  the  day,  680 

And  call'd  the  world  to  worship  on  the  banks 

Of  Avon,  fam'd  in  song.    Ah,  pleasant  proof 

That  piety  has  «till  in  human  hearts 

Some  place,  a  spark  or  two  not  yet  extinct. 

The  mulb'rry  tree  was  hung  with  blooming  wreaths  ; 

The  mulb'rry  tree  stood  centre  of  the  dance ;  686 

The  mulb'rry  tree  was  hymn'd  with  dulcet  airs; 

And  from  his  touchwood  trunk  the  mulb'rry  tree 

Supplied  such  relicks  as  devotion  holds 

Still  sacred,  and  preserves  with  pious  care.  690 

So  'twas  a  hallow'd  time  :  decorum  reign'd, 

And  mirth  without  offence.     No  few  returned. 


142  THE  TASK. 

Doubtless,  much  edified,  and  all  refresh'd. 

— Man  praises  man.     The  rabble  all  alive 

From  tippling  benches,  cellars,  stalls,  and  styes,      695 

Swarm  in  the  streets.     The  statesman  of  the  day, 

A  pompous  and  slow-moving  pageant,  comes. 

Some  shout  him,  and  some  hang  upon  his  car, 

To  gaze  in  's  eyes,  and  bless  him.     Maidens  wave 

Their  kerchiefs,  and  old  women  weep  for  joy :         700 

Willie  others,  not  so  satisfied,  unhorse 

Tlie  gilded  equipage,  and  turning  loose 

His  steeds,  usurp  a  place  they  well  deserve. 

Why  ?  what  has  charm'd  them  ?     Hath  he  saved  the 

state  ? 
No.    Doth  he  purpose  its  salvation  ?    No.  705 

Enchanting  novelty,  that  moon  at  full. 
That  finds  out  ev'ry  crevice  of  the  head 
That  is  not  sound,  and  perfect,  hath  in  theirs 
Wrought  tliis  disturbance.     But  the  wane  is  near. 
And  his  own  cattle  must  suffice  him  soon.  71© 

Thus  idly  do  we  waste  the  breath  of  praise, 
And  dedicate  a  tribute,  in  its  use 
And  just  direction  sacred,  to  a  thing 
Doom'd  to  the  dust,  or  lodg'd  already  there. 
Encomium  in  old  time  was  poet's  work;  716 

But  poets,  having  lavishly  long  since 
Exhausted  all  materials  of  the  art, 
The  task  now  falls  into  the  publick  hand ; 
And  I  contented  with  an  humbler  theme, 
Have  pour'd  my  stream  of  panegyrick  down  7S90 

1 1  Th©  vale  of  Nature,  where  it  creeps  and  wini\i 

1 1  Among  her  lovely  works  with  a  secure 

jj  And  unambitious  course,  reflecting  clear, 

\  j  If  not  the  virtues,  yet  the  worth  of  brutes. 

[i  And  I  am  recompensed,  and  deem  the  toils  735 

[|  Of  poetry  not  lost,  if  verse  of  mine 

•  May  stand  between  an  animal  and  wo, 

1 1  And  teach  one  tyrant  pity  for  his  drudge. 

ri  The  groans  of  Nature  in  this  nether  world, 

i 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.       143 
Which  heav'n  has  heard  for  ages,  have  an  end.        730 
Foretold  by  prophets,  and  by  poets  sung, 
Whose  fire  was  kindled  at  the  prophets'  lamp ; 
The  time  of  rest,  the  promis'd  sabbath,  comes 
Six  thousand  years  of  sorrow  have  well  nig 
Fulfiird  their  tardy  and  disastrous  course  735 

Over  a  sinful  world  ;  and  what  remains 
Of  this  tempestuous  state  of  human  thingi 
Is  merely  as  the  working  of  a  sea 
Before  a  calm  that  rocks  itself  to  rest ; 
For  He,  whose  car  the  winds  are,  and  the  cloudB    740 
The  dust  that  waits  upon  his  sultry  march, 
When  sin  hath  mov'd  him,  and  his  wrath  is  hot, 
Shall  visit  earth  in  mercy ;  shall  descend 
Propitious  in  his  chariot  pav'd  with  love ; 
And  what  his  storms  have  blasted  and  detac'd         745 
For  man's  revolt,  shall  with  a  smile  repair. 

Sweet  is  the  harp  of  prophecy  ;  too  sweet 
Not  to  be  wrong 'd  by  a  mere  mortal  touch ; 
Nor  can  the  wonders  it  records  be  simg 
To  meaner  musick,  and  not  suffer  loss.  750 

But  when  a  poet,  or  when  one  like  me, 
Happy  to  rove  among  poetick  flow'rs. 
Though  poor  in  skill  to  rear  them,  lights  at  last 
On  some  fair  theme,  some  theme  divinely  fair, 
Such  is  the  impulse  and  the  spur  he  feels,  755 

To  give  it  praise  proportion'd  1^  its  worth, 
That  not  t'  attempt  it,  arduous  as  he  deems 
The  labour,  were  a  task  more  arduous  still. 

O  scenes  surpassing  fable,  and  yet  true, 
Scenes  of  accomplish'd  bliss  !  which  who  can  see,  700 
Though  but  in  distant  prospect,  and  not  feel 
His  soul  refresh'd  with  foretaste  of  the  joy  ? 
Rivers  of  gladness  water  all  the  earth, 
And  clothe  all  climes  with  beauty  j  the  reproach 
Ofbarrennessispast.    The  fruitful  field  765 

Laughs  with  abundance  ;  and  the  land,  once  lean. 


144  THE  TASK.         ^  '^^'T 

<Or  fertile  only  in  its  own  disgrace, 
Exults  to  see  its  thistly  curse  repeal'd. 
The  various  seasons  woven  into  one, 
And  that  one  season  an  eternal  spring,  770 

The  garden  fears  no  blight,  and  needs  no  fence, 
For  there  is  none  to  covet,  all  are  full. 
The  lion,  and  the  libbard,  and  the  bear, 
Graze  with  the  fearless  flocks  ;  all  bask  at  noon 
Together,  or  all  gambol  in  the  shade  775 

Of  the  same  grove,  and  drink  one  common  streamy 
Antipathies  are  none.     No  foe  to  man 
Lurks  in  the  serpent  now  ;  the  mother  sees, 
And  smiles  to  see,  her  infant's  playful  hand 
Stretch'd  forth  to  dally  with  the  crested  worm,        780 
To  stroke  his  azure  neck,  or  to  receive 
dFhe  lambent  homage  of  his  arrowy  tongue. 
All  creatures  worship  man,  and  all  mankind 
One  Lord,  one  Father.    Errour  has  no  place  ; 
That  creeping  pestilence  is  driv'n  away  ;  785 

The  breath  of  Jrleav'n  has  chas'd  it.     In  the  heart 
No  passion  touches  a  discordant  string, 
But  all  is  harmony  and  love.     Disease 
Is  not :  the  pure  and  uncontaminate  blood 
Holds  its  due  course,  nor  fears  the  frost  of  age.       790 
One  song  employs  all  nations  ;  and  all  cry, 
"  Worthy  the  Lamb,  for  he  was  slain  for  us  !" 
The  dwellers  in  the.Tj|Jes  and  on  the  rocks 
Shout  to  each  other,  and  the  mountain  tops 
From  distant  mountains  catch  the  flying  joy,  795 

Till,  nation  after  nation  taught  the  strain, 
JEarth  rolls  the  rapturous  hosanna  round. 
Behold  the  measure  of  the  promise  fill'd  ; 
See  Salem  built,  the  labour  of  a  God  ! 
Bright  as  a  sun  the  sacred  city  shines ;  800 

All  kingdoms  and  all  princes  of  the  earth 
Flock  to  that  light ;  the  glory  of  all  lands 
Flows  into  her  ;  unbounded  is  her  joy. 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.       146 
And  endless  her  increase.     Thy  rams  are  there 
Nebaioth,  and  the  flocks  of  Kedar  there  ;*  805 

The  looms  of  Ormus,  and  the  mines  of  Ind, 
And  Saba's  spicy  groves  pay  tribute  there. 
Praise  is  in  all  her  gates ;  upon  her  walls, 
And  in  her  streets,  and  in  her  spacious  courts, 
Is  heard  salvation.     Eastern  Java  there  810 

Kneels  with  the  native  of  the  farthest  west ; 
And  iEthiopia  spreads  abroad  the  hand, 
And  worships.    Her  report  has  travell'd  forth 
Into  all  lands.     From  ev'ry  clime  they  come 
To  see  thy  beauty,  and  to  share  thy  joy,  815 

O  Sion  !  an  assembly  such  as  Earth 
Saw  never,  such  as  Heav'n  stoops  down  to  see. 

Thus  heav'nward  all  things  tend-  For  all  were  once 
Perfect,  and  all  must  bo  at  length  rcstor'd. 
So  God  has  greatly  purpos'd  ;  who  would  else        820 
In  his  dishonour'd  works  himself  endure 
Dishonour,  and  be  wrong'd  without  redress. 
Haste,  then,  and  vvhecl  away  a  shatter'd  world, 
Ye  slow-revolving  seasons  !  we  would  see 
(A  sight  to  which  our  eyes  are  strangers  yet)  825 

A  world,  that  does  not  dread  and  hate  his  laws, 
And  suffer  for  its  crime  ;  would  learn  how  fair 
The  creature  is,  that  God  pronounces  good  ; 
How  pleasant  in  itself  what  pleads  him. 
Here  ev'ry  drop  of  honey  hides  a  sting  :  830 

Worms  wind  themselves  into  our  sweetest  flow'rs 
And  e'en  the  joy,  that  haply  some  poor  heart 
Derives  from  Heav'n,  pure  as  the  fountain  is, 
Is  sullied  in  the  stream,  taking  a  taint 
From  touch  of  human  lips,  at  best  impure.  835 

O  for  a  Morld  in  principle  as  chaste 
As  this  is  gross  and  selfish  !  over  which 

*  Nebaioth  and  Kedar,  the  sons  of  Isbmael,  and  progenitors 
of  the  Arabs  in  the  prophetick  Scripture  here  alluded  to,  may 
be  reasonably  considered  as  representatives  of  the  Gentiles  at 
large. 

Vol.  H.  13 


146  THE  TASK. 

Custom  and  prejudice  shall  bear  no  sway, 

That  govern  all  things  here,  should'ring  aside 

The  meek  and  modest  Truth,  and  forcing  her         840 

To  seek  a  refuge  from  the  tongue  of  Strife 

In  nooks  obscure,  far  from  the  ways  of  men ; 

Where  Violence  shall  never  lift  the  sword, 

Nor  Cunning  justify  the  proud  man's  wrong. 

Leaving  the  poor  no  remedy  but  tears :  845 

Wliere  he  that  fills  an  office,  shall  esteem 

Th'  occasion  it  presents  of  doing  good 

More  than  the  perquisite  :  where  Law  shall  speak 

Seldom,  and  never  but  as  Wisdom  prompts 

And  Equity ;  not  jealous  more  to  guard  850 

A  worthless  form  than  to  decide  aright ; 

Where  Fashion  shall  not  sanctify  abuse. 

Nor  smooth  Good-breeding  (supplemental  grace) 

With  lean  performance  ape  the  work  of  Love  ! 

Come,  then,  and,  added  to  thy  many  crowns,      855 
Receive  yet  one,  the  crown  of  all  the  earth. 
Thou  who  alone  art  worthy  !  It  was  thine 
By  ancient  covenant,  ere  Nature's  birth  ; 
And  thou  hast  made  it  thine  by  purchase  since ; 
And  o'erpaid  its  value  with  thy  blood.  860 

Thy  saints  proclaim  thee  king ;  and  in  their  hearts 
Thy  title  is  engraven  with  a  pen 
Dipped  in  the  fountain  of  eternal  love. 
Thy  saints  proclaim  thee  king ;  and  thy  delay 
Gives  courage  to  their  foes,  who,  could  they  see     865 
Tlie  dawn  of  thy  last  advent,  long  desir'd, 
Would  creep  into  the  bowels  of  the  hills, 
And  flee  for  safety  to  the  falling  rocks. 
The  very  spirit  of  the  world  is  tir'd 
j£  its  own  taunting  question,  ask'd  so  long,  870 

"  Where  is  the  promise  of  your  Lord's  approach  ?" 
The  infidel  has  shot  his  bolts  away. 
Till  his  exhausted  quiver  yielding  none. 
He  gleans  the  blunted  shafts,  that  have  recoil'd, 
And  aims  them  at  the.  shield  of  Truth  again.  875 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.       U? 
The  veil  id  rent,  rent  too  by  priestly  hands, 
That  hides  divinity  from  mortal  eyes ; 
And  all  the  mysteries  to  faith  propos'd, 
Insulted  and  traduc'd  are  cast  aside, 
As  useless,  to  the  moles  and  to  the  bats.  880 

They  now  are  deem'd  the  faithful,  and  are  prais*d. 
Who,  constant  only  in  rejecting  Thee, 
Deny  thy  Godhead  with  a  martyr's  zeal, 
And  quit  their  office  for  their  errour's  sake. 
Blind  and  in  love  with  darkness  !  yet  e'en  these    885 
Worthy,  compar'd  with  sycophants,  who  knee 
Thy  name  adoring,  and  then  preach  thee  man ; 
So  fares  thy  church.    But  how  thy  church  may  fare 
The  world  takes  little  thought.  Who  will  may  preach, 
And  what  they  will.     All  pastors  are  alike  890 

To  wand'ring  sheep,  resolv'd  to  follow  none. 
Two  gods  divide  them  all — Pleasure  and  Gain ; 
For  these  they  live,  they  sacrifice  to  these, 
And  in  their  service  wage  perpetual  war  694 

With  Conscience  and  with  Thee.  Lust  in  their  hearts, 
And  mischief  in  their  hands,  they  roam  the  earth 
To  prey  upon  each  other  ;  stubborn,  fierce. 
High-minded,  foaming  out  their  own  disgrace. 
Thy  prophets  speak  of  such ;  and  noting  down 
The  features  of  the  last  degen'rate  times,  900 

Exhibit  every  lineament  of  these. 
Come,  then,  and,  added  to  thy  many  crowns, 
'  Receive  yet  one,  as  radiant  as  the  rest, 
Due  to  thy  last  and  most  effectual  work. 
Thy  word  fulfiU'd,  the  conquest  of  a  world !  905 

He  is  the  happy  man,  whose  life  e'en  now 
Shows  somewhat  of  that  happier  life  to  come ; 
Who,  doom'd  to  an  obscure  but  tranquil  state, 
Is  pleas'd  with  it,  and,  were  he  free  to  choose. 
Would  make  his  fate  his  choice  ;  whom  peace,  the  fruft 
Of  virtue,  and  whom  virtue,  fruit  of  faith,  9 J 1 

Prepare  for  happiness  ;  bespeak  him  one 
Content  indeed  to  sojourn  while  he  must 


A 


148  THE  TASK. 

Helow  the  skies,  but  having  there  his  he  mo. 
The  world  o'erlooks  him  in  her  busy  search  915 

Of  objects  more  illustrious  in  her  view ; 
And  occupied  as  earnestly  as  she, 
Though  more  sublimely,  he  o'erlooks  the  World. 
She  scorns  his  pleasures,  for  she  knows  them  not ; 
He  seeks  not  hers,  for  he  has  prov'd  them  vain.      920 
He  cannot  skim  the  ground  like  summer  birds 
Pursuing  gilded  flies  ;  and  such  he  deems 
Her  honours,  her  emoluments,  her  joys. 
Therefore  in  contemplation  is  his  bliss, 
Whose  pow'r  is  such,  that  whom  she  lifts  from  earth 
She  mj^es  familiar  with  a  Heav'n  unseen,  926 

And  shows  him  glories  yet  to  be  reveal'd. 
Not  slothful  he,  though  seeming  unemployed, 
'  nd  censur'd  oft  as  useless.     Stillest  streams 
Oft  water  fairest  meadows,  andl;he  bird  930 

That  flutters  least  is  longest  on  the  wing^'' 
Ask  him,  indeed,  what  trophies  he  has  rais'd, 
Or  what  achievements  of  immortal  fame 
He  purposes,  and  he  shall  answer — None. 
His  warfare  is  within.     There,  unfatigu*d,  935 

His  fervent  spirit  labours.     There  he  fights 
And  there  obtains  fresh  triumphs  o'er  himself^ 
And  never- with'ring  wreaths,  compar'd  with  which. 
The  laurels  that  a  Caesar  reaps  are  weeds. 
Perhaps  the  self-approving,  haughty  world,  940 

That  as  she  sweeps  him  with  her  whistling  nlks 
Scarce  deigns  to  notice  him,  or  if  she  see, 
Deems  him  a  cipher  in  the  works  of  God, 
R»5ceives  advantage  from  his  noiseless  hours, 
Of  which  she  little  dreams.     Perhaps  she  owes       945 
Her  sunshine  and  her  rain,  her  blooming  spring 
And  plenteous  harvest,  to  the  pray'r  he  makes, 
When,  Isaac  like,  the  solitary  saint 
Walks  forth  to  meditate  at  eventide. 
And  think  on  her  who  thinks  not  for  herself.  950 

Forgive  him,  then,  thou  bustler  in  concerns 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.        149 
Of  little  worth,  an  idler,  in  the  best, 
If,  author  of  no  mischief  and  some  good, 
He  seeks  his  proper  happiness  by  means 
That  may  advance,  but  cannot  hinder,  thino.  955 

Nor,  though  he  tread  the  secret  path  of  life, 
Engage  no  notice,  and  enjoy  much  ease, 
Account  him  an  encumbrance  on  the  state, 
Receiving  benefits,  and  rend'ring  none. 
His  sphere,  though  humble,  if  that  humble  sphere 
Shine  with  his  fair  example  ;  and  though  small      961 
His  influence,  if  that  influence  all  be  spent 
In  soothing  sorrow,  and  in  quenching  strife, 
In  aiding  helpless  indigence  in  works 
From  which  at  least  a  grateful  few  derive  965 

Some  taste  of  comfort  in  a  world  of  wo ; 
Then  let  the  supercilious  great  confess 
He  serves  his  country,  recompenses  well 
The  state  beneath  the  shadow  of  whose  vine 
He  sits  secure,  and  in  the  scale  of  life  970 

Holds  no  ignoble,  though  a  slighted,  place. 
The  man,  whose  virtues  are  more  felt  than  seen, 
Must  drop  indeed  the  hope  of  publick  praise ; 
But  he  may  boast,  what  few  that  win  it  can. 
That  if  his  country  stand  not  by  his  skill,  975 

At  least  his  follies  have  not  wrought  her  fall. 
Polite  Refinement  offers  him  in  vain 
Her  golden  tube,  through  which  a  sensual  World 
Draws  gross  impurity,  and  likes  it  well. 
The  neat  conveyance  hiding  all  the  offence.  980 

Not  that  he  peevishly  rejects  a  mode. 
Because  that  World  adopts  it.     If  it  bear 
The  stamp  and  clear  impression  of  good  sense. 
And  be  not  costly  more  than  of  true  worth 
He  puts  it  on;  and  for  decorum  sake  985 

Can  wear  it  e'en  as  gracefully  as  she. 
She  judges  of  refinement  by  the  eye ; 
He,  by  the  test  of  conscience,  and  a  heart 
Not  soon  deceiv'd  ;  aware,  that  what  is  base 
13  • 


150  THE  TASK. 

No  polish  can  make  sterling  ;  .and  that  vice,  990 

Though  well  pcrfum'd  and  elegantly  dress'd. 

Like  an  unburied  carcass  trick'd  with  flow'rs, 

Is  but  a  garnish'd  nuisance,  fitter  far 

For  cleanly  riddance  than  for  fair  attire. 

So  life  glides  smoothly  and  by  stealth  away,  995 

More  golden  than  that  age  of  fabled  gold 

Renown'd  in  ancient  song  ;  not  vex'd  with  care 

Or  stain'd  with  guilt,  beneficent,  approv'd 

Of  God  and  man,  and  peaceful  in  its  end. 

So  glide  my  life  away  !  and  so  at  last,  1000 

My  share  of  duties  decently  fulfill 'd, 

May  some  disease,  not  tardy  to  perform 

Its  destin'd  office,  yet  with  gentle  stroke, 

Dismiss  me  weary  to  a  safe  retreat, 

Beneath  the  turf  that  I  have  often  trod.  1005 

It  shall  not  grieve  me  then,  that  once,  when  call'd 

To  dress  a  Sofa  with  the  flow'rs  of  verse, 

I  play'd  awhile,  obedient  to  the  fair. 

With  that  light  Task  ;  but  soon,  to  please  her  more, 

Whom  flowers  alone  I  knew  would  little  please,    1010 

Let  fall  th'  unfinish'd  wreath,  and  rov'd  for  fruit ; 

Rov'd  far,  and  gather'd  much ;  some  harsh,  'tis  true, 

Pick'd  from  the  thorns  and  briars  of  reproof. 

But  wholesome,  well  digested  ;  grateful  some 

To  palates  that  can  taste  immortal  truth ;  1015 

Insipid  else,  and  sure  to  be  despis'd. 

But  all  is  in  His  hand  whose  praise  I  seek. 

In  vain  the  poet  sings,  and  the  World  hears, 

If  he  regard  not,  though  divine  the  theme. 

'Tis  not  in  artful  measures,  in  the  chime  1020 

And  idle  tinkling  of  a  minstrel's  lyre. 

To  charm  His  ear  whose  eye  is  on  the  heart. 

Whose  frown  can  disappoint  the  proudest  strain, 

Whose  Approbation — prosper  even  mine. 


1 .J 


(151) 

AN 

EPISTLE  TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa 


DEAR  JOSEPH— five  and  twenty  years  ago— 
Alas,  how  time  escapes  !  'tis  even  so— 
With  frequent  intercourse,  and  always  sweet, 
And  always  friendly,  we  were  wont  to  cheat 
A  tedious  hour — and  now  we  never  meet  i 
As  some  grave  gentleman  in  Terence  says, 
('Twas  therefore  much  the  same  in  ancient  days,) 
Good  lack,  we  know  not  what  to-morrow  brings— 
Strange  fluctuation  of  all  human  things  ! 
True.     Changes  will  befall,  and  friends  may  part 
But  distance  only  cannot  change  the  heart ; 
And,  where  I  call'd  to  prove  th'  assertion  true, 
One  proof  should  serve — a  reference  to  you. 

Whence  comes  it,  then,  that  in  the  vane  of  life, 
Though  nothing  have  occurr'd  to  kindle  strife, 
We  find  the  friends  we  fancied  we  had  won. 
Though  num'roHS  once,  reduc'd  to  few  or  none  ? 
Can  gold  grow  worthless,  that  has  stood  the  touch  7 
No  ;  gold  they  seem'd,  but  they  were  never  such. 

Horatio's  servant  once,  with  bow  and  cringe, 
Swinging  the  parlour  door  upon  its  hinge, 
Dreading  a  negative,  and  overaw'd 
Lest  he  should  trespass,  begg'd  to  go  abroad. 
Go,  fellow, — whither  ?— turning  short  about — 
Nay — St?y  at  home — ^you're  always  going  out. 
Tis  but  a  step,  sir,  just  at  the  street's  end. — 
For  what  ? — An  please  you,  sir,  to  see  a  friend.— 
A  friend  !  Horatio  cried,  and  seem'd  to  start — 
Vea,  marry  shalt  thou,  and  with  all  m};  heart— 


152      EPISTLE  TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESQ. 
And  fetch  my  cloak  ;  for,  though  the  night  be  raw, 
I'll  see  him  too — the  firbt  I  ever  saw. 

I  knew  the  man,  and  knew  his  nature  mild, 
And  was  his  plaything  often  when  a  child  ; 
But  somewhat  at  that  moment  pinch'd  him  close, 
Else  he  was  seldom  bitter  or  morose. 
Perhaps  his  confidence  just  then  betray'd, 
His  grief  might  prompt  him  with  the  speech  he  made 
Perhaps  'twas  mere  good  hum'our  gave  it  birth, 
The  harmless  play  of  pleasantry  and  mirth. 
Howe'er  it  was,  his  language,  in  my  mind 
Bespoke  at  least  a  man  that  knew  mankind. 

But  not  to  moralize  too  much,  and  strain, 
To  prove  an  evil,  of  which  all  complain, 
(I  hate  long  arguments  verbosely  spun,) 
One  story  more,  dear  Hill,  and  I  have  done. 
Once  on  a  time,  an  emp'ror,  a  wise  man, 
No  matter  where,  in  China  or  Japan, 
Decreed,  that  whosoever  should  offend 
Against  the  well-known  duties  of  a  friend, 
Convicted  once,  should  ever  after  wear 
But  half  a  coat,  and  show  his  bosom  bare. 
The  punishment  importing  this,  no  doubt. 
That  all  was  naught  within,  and  all  found  out 

O  happy  Britain  !  we  have  not  to  fear 
Such  hard  and  arbitrary  measure  here  ; 
Else;  could  a  law  like  that  which  I  relate, 
Once  have  the  sanction  of  our  triple  state, 
Some  few,  that  I  have  known  in  days  of  old, 
Would  run  most  dreadful  risk  of  catching  cold  ; 
While  you,  my  friend,  whatever  wind  should  blow 
Might  traverse  England  safely  to  and  fro, 
An  honest  man,  close  button'd  to  the  chin. 
Broadcloth  without,  and  a  warm  heart  within. 


TIROCINIUM : 


OR, 


A  REVIEW  OP   SCHOOLa 


Kr^aAaiov  hj  vaiSeiai  op^ri  rpoifttf PLATO. 

Afxv  ^oXiTuas  oKtunjf  vsuv  rpo^ diog.  laert. 


TO  THE 

REV.  WILLIAM  CAWTHORNE  UNWIN, 

RECTOR  OF  STOCK  IN  ESSEXy 

THE  TUTOR  OP  HIS  TWO  SONS, 

THE  FOLLOWING 

POEI3ME, 

RECOMMENDING  PRIVATE  TUITION,  IN  PREFERENCE 

TO  AN  EDUCATION  AT  SCHOOL, 

IS   INSCRIBED, 

BT  HIS  AFFECTIONATE  FRIEND^ 

WILLIAM  COWPER 


Otney.Jfow.^llQL 


TIROCINIUM. 


IT  is  not  from  his  form,  in  which  we  trace 
Strength  join*d  with  beauty,  dignity  with  grace, 
That  man,  the  master  of  this  globe,  derives 
His  right  of  empire  over  all  that  Uvea. 
That  form,  indeed,  th*  associate  of  a  mind  5 

Vast  in  its  pow'rs,  ethereal  in  its  kind — 
That  form,  the  labour  of  almighty  skill, 
Fram'd  for  the  service  of  a  freebom  will, 
Asserts  precedence,  and  bespeaks  control, 
But  borrows  frll  its  grandeur  from  the  soul.  10 

Here  is  the  state,  the  splendour,  and  the  throne, 
An  intellectual  kingdom,  all  her  own. 
For  her  the  Mem'ry  fills  her  ample  page 
With  truths  pour'd  down  from  ev'ry  distant  age  • 
For  her  amasses  an  unbounded  store,  .       15 

The  wisdom  of  great  nations,  now  no  more ; 
Though  ladeij,  not  encumbered  with  her  spoil ; 
Laborious,  yet  unconscious  of  her  toil ; 
When  copiously  supplied,  then  most  enlarg*d. 
Still  to  be  fed,  and  not  to  be  surcharg'd.  20 

For  her  the  Fancy,  roving  unconfin'd, 
The  present  muse  of  ev'ry  pensive  mind. 
Works  m'agick  wonders,  adds  a  brighter  hue 
To  Nature's  scenes  than  Nature  ever  knew.  "* 

At  her  command  winds  riSe,  and  waters  roar,  36 

Again  she  lays  them  slumbering  on  the  shore ; 


i5G  TIROCINIUM  :  OR, 

With  flowT  and  fruit  the  wilderness  supplies. 

Or  bids  the  rocks  in  ruder  pomp  arise. 

For  her  the  Judgment,  umpire  in  the  strife. 

That  Grace  and  Nature  have  to  wage  through  life,  30 

Quick-sighted  arbiter  of  good  and  ill. 

Appointed  sage  preceptor  to  the  will, 

Condemns,  approves,  and  with  a  faithful  voice 

Guides  the  decision  of  a  doubtful  choice. 

Why  did  the  fiat  of  a  God  give  birth  35 

To  yon  fair  Sun,  and  his  attendant  Earth  ? 
And  when,  descending,  he  resigns  the  skies. 
Why  takes  the  gentler  Moon  her  turn  to  rise. 
Whom  Ocean  feels  through  all  his  countless  waves. 
And  owns  her  pow'r  on  ev'ry  shore  he  Javes  i  40 

Why  do  the  seasons  still  enrich  the  year. 
Fruitful  and  young  as  in  their  first  career  ^ 
Spring  hangs  her  infant  blossoms  on  the  trees, 
Rock'd  in  the  cradle  of  the  western  breeze ; 
Summer  in  haste  the  thriving  charge  receives  45 

Beneath  the  shade  of  her  expanded  leaves, 
Till  Autumn's  fiercer  heats  and  plenteous  dews 
Die  them  at  last  in  all  their  glowing  hufes — 
'Twere  wild  profusion  all,  and  bootless  waste, 
Pow'r  misemployed,  munificence  misplac'd,  50 

Had  not  its  author  dignified  the  plan, 
And  crown'd  it  with  the  majesty  ot  man. 
Thus  form'd,  thus  plac'd,  intelligent,  and  taught. 
Look  where  he  will,  the  wonders  God  has  wrought, 
The  wildest  scorner  of  his  Maker's  laws  55 

Finds  in  a  sober  moment  time  to  pause. 
To  press  th'  important  question  on  his  heart, 
'"  Why  form'd  at  all,  and  wherefore  as  thou  art .?" 
If  man  be  what  he  seems,  this  hour  a  slave. 
The  next  mere  dust  and  ashes  in  the  grave  ;  CO 

Endu'd  with  reason  only  to  descry 
His  crimes  and  follies  with  an  aching  eye ; 
With  passions,  just  that  he  may  prove,  with  pain, 
The  force  he  spends  agains*  their  fury  vain ; 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  157 

And  if,  soon  after  having  burn'd,  by  turns,  65 

With  eir'ry  lust  with  which  frail  Nature  burns« 
His  being  end  where  death  desolvcs  the  bond, 
The  tomb  tak^  all,  and  all  be  blank  beyond ; 
Then  he  of  all  that  Nature  has  brought  fortb. 
Stands  self-impeach'd  the  creature  of  least  worth,    70 
And  useless  while  he  lives  and  when  he  dies, 
Brings  into  doubt  the  wisdom  of  the  skies. 

Truths,  that  the  learn'd  pursue  with  eager  thought, 
Are  not  important  always  as  dear  bought. 
Proving  at  last,  though  told  in  pompous  strains,        75 
A  childish  waste  of  philosophick  pains ; 
But  truths,  on  which  depends  our  main  concern, 
That  'tis  our  shame  and  mis'ry  not  to  learn, 
Shine  by  the  side  of  ev'ry  path  we  tread 
With  such  a  lustre,  he  that  runs  may  read.  80 

'Tis  true,  that  if  to  tyifle  life  away 
Down  to  the  sunset  of  their  latest  day. 
Then  perish  on  futurity's  wide  shore, 
Like  fleeting  exhalations,  found  no  more, 
Were  all  that  Heav'n  requir'd  of  human  kind,  85 

And  all  the  plan  their  destiny  design'd, 
What  none  could  rev'rence  all  might  justly  blame, 
And  man  would  breathe  but  for  his  Maker's  shame. 
But  reason  heard,  and  nature  well  perus'd, 
At  once  the  dreaming  mind  is  disabus'd.  90 

If  all  we  find  possessing  earth,  sea,  air. 
Reflect  his  attributes  who  plac'd  them  there, 
Fulfil  the  purpose,  and  appear  design'd 
Proofs  of  the  wisdom  of  the  all-seeing  Mind, 
*Tis  plain  the  creature,  whom  ho  chose  t*  invest       95 
With  kingship  and  dominion  o'er  the  rest, 
Received  his  nobler  nature,  and  was  Made 
Fit  for  the  pow'r  in  which  ho  stands  array*d  ; 
That  first,  or  last,  hereafter,  if  not  here. 
He  too  might  make  his  author's  wisdom  clear,        100 
Praise  him  on  earth,  or,  obstinately  dumK 
Suffer  his  justice  in  a  world  to  come. 
Vol.  II.  14 


158  TIROCINIUM :  OR, 

This  once  believ'd,  'twere  logick  misapplied, 

To  prove  a  consequence  by  none  denied, 

That  we  are  bound  to  cast  the  minds  of  youth        105 

Betimes  into  the  mould  of  heav'nly  truth, 

That  taught  of  God  they  may  mdeed  be  wisei 

Nor,  ignorantly  wand'ring,  miss  the  skies. 

In  early  days  the  conscience  has  in  most 
A  quickness,  which  in  later  life  is  lost :  110 

Preserv'd  from  guilt  by  salutary  fears, 
Or,  guilty,  soon  relenting  into  tears.  < 

Too  careless  often,  as  our  years  proceed. 
What  friends  we  sort  with,  or  what  books  we  ready 
Our  parents  yet  exert  a  prudent  care,  115 

To  feed  our  infant  minds  with  proper  fare  ; 
And  wisely  store  the  nurs'ry  by  degrees 
With  wholesome  learning,  yet  acquir'd  with  ease. 
Neatly  secur'd  from  being  soil'd  or  torn 
Beneath  a  pane  of  thin  translucent  horn,  120 

A  book,  (to  please  us  at  a  tender  age 
'Tis  call'd  a  book,  though  but  a  single  page.) 
Presents  the  pray'r  the  Saviour  deign'd  to  teach, 
Which  children  use,  and  parsons — when  they  preach. 
Lisping  our  syllables,  we  scramble  next  125 

Through  moral  narrative,  or  sacred  text ; 
And  learn  with  wonder  how  this  world  began. 
Who  made,  who  mg,rr'd,  and  who  has  ransom'd  man. 
Points  which,  unless  the  Scripture  made  them  plain, 
The  wisest  heads  might  agitate  in  vain.  130 

0  thou,  whom,  borne  on  fancy's  eager  wing 
Back  to  the  season  of  life's  happy  spring, 

1  pleas'd  remember,  and,  while  mem'ry  yet 
Holds  fast  her  office  here,  can  ne'er  forget ', 
Ingenious  dreamer,  in  whose  well-told  tale  135 
Sweet  fiction  and  sweet  truth  alike  prevail ; 

Whose  hum'rous  vein,  strong  sense,  and  simple  stylO) 
May  teach  the  gayest,  make  the  gravest  smile  ; 
Witty,  and  well  employ'd,  and  like  thy  Lord, 
Speaking  in  parables  his  slighted  word  ;  140 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS  159 

f  name  thee  not,  lest  so  despis'd  a  name 
Should  move  a  sneer  at  thy  deserved  fame , 
Yet  e'en  in  transitory  life's  late  day, 
That  mingles  all  my  brown  with  sober  gray, 
Revere  the  man,  whose  Pilgrim  marks  the  road,    145 
And  guides  the  progress  of  the  soul  to  God. 
'Twere  well  with  most,  if  books,  that  could  engage 
Their  childhood,  pleas'd  them  at  a  riper  age  ; 
The  man  approving  what  had  charm'd  the  boy, 
Would  die  at  last  in  comfort,  peace,  and  joy  ;  150 

And  not  with  curses  on  his  heart,  who  stole 
The  gem  of  truth  from  his  unguarded  soul. 
The  stamp  of  artless  piety  impress'd 
By  kind  tuition  on  his  yielding  breast, 
The  youth  now  bearded,  and  yet  pert  and  raw,        155 
Regards  with  scorn,  though  once  receiv'd  with  awe  ; 
And,  warp'd  into  the  labyrinth  of  lies. 
That  babblers,  call'd  philosophers,  devise, 
Blasphemes  his  creed,  as  founded  on  a  plan 
Replete  with  dreams,  unworthy  of  a  man-  160 

Touch  but  his  nature  in  its  ailing  part, 
Assert  the  native  evil  of  his  heart. 
His  pride  resents  the  charge,  although  the  proof 
Rise  in  his  forehead,*  and  seem  rank  enough  j 
Point  to  the  cure,  describe  a  Saviour's  cross  165 

As  God's  expedient  to  retrieve  his  loss, 
The  young  apostate  sickens  at  the  view, 
And  hates  it  with  the  malice  of  a  Jew. 

How  weak  the  barrier  of  mere  Nature  proves, 
Oppos'd  against  the  pleasures  Nature  loves !  170 

While  self-betray'd  and  wildfully  undone. 
She  longs  to  yield,  no  sooner  woo'd  than  won. 
Try  now  the  merits  of  this  bless'd  exchange, 
Of  modest  truth  for  wit's  eccentrick  range. 
Time  was,  he  clos'd  as  he  began  the  day  175 

With  decent  duty,  not  asham'd  to  pray  : 

"  See  2  Chron.  ch.  xxvi.  ver.  19. 


160  TIROCINIUM :  OR, 

The  practice  was  a  bond  up»n  his  heart, 

A  pledge  he  gave  for  a  consistent  part ; 

Nor  could  he  dare  presumptuously  displease 

A  pow'r  confess'd  so  lately  on  his  knees.  180 

But  now  farewell  all  legendary  tales, 

The  shadows  fly,  philosophy  prevails  ; 

Pray'r  to  the  winds,  and  caution  to  the  waves  > 

Religion  makes  thee  free  by  nature  slaves ! 

Priests  have  invented,  and  the  world  admir'd  185 

What  knavish  priests  promulgate  as  inspir'd; 

Till  Reason,  now  no  longer  overaw'd. 

Resumes  her  powers,  and  spurns  the  clumsy  fraud , 

And,  common  sense  diffusing  real  day, 

The  meteor  of  the  Gospel  dies  away  190 

Such  rhapsodies  our  shrewd  discerning  youth 

Learn  from  expert  inquirers  after  truth  ; 

Whose  only  care,  might  truth  presume  to  speak. 

Is  not  to  find  what  they  profess  to  seek. 

And  thus,  well-tutor'd  only  while  we  share  195 

A  mother's  lectures  and  a  nurse's  care  ; 

And  taught  at  schools  much  mythologick  stuff,* 

But  sound  religion  sparingly  enough ; 

Our  early  notices  of  truth,  disgrac'd, 

Soon  lose  their  credit,  and  are  all  effac'd.  200 

Would  you  your  son  should  be  a  sot  or  dunce, 
Lascivious,  headstrong,  or  all  these  at  once  ; 
That  in  good  time  the  stripling's  fmish'd  taste 
For  loose  expense,  and  fashionable  waste, 
Should  prove  your  ruin  and  his  own  at  last ;  205 

Train  him  in  publick  with  a  mob  of  boys, 
Childish  in  mischief  only  and  in  noise. 
Else  of  a  mannish  growth,  and  five  in  ten 
In  infidelity  and  lewdness  men. 

*  The  author  be^s  leave  to  explain.  Sensible  that  without 
»ach  knowledge  neither  the  ancient  poets  nor  historians  can 
he  tasted,  or  indeed  understood,  he  does  not  mean  to  censure 
the  pains  that  are  taken  to  instruct  a  school  boy  in  the  religion 
of  the  Heathen,  but  merely  that  neglect  of  Christian  culture, 
which  leaves  him  shamefully  ignorant  of  his  own. 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  161 

There  shall  he  learn,  ere  sixteen  winters  old,  210 

That  authors  are  most  useful,  pawn'd  or  sold ; 
That  pedantry  is  all  that  schools  impart. 
But  taverns  teach  the  knowledge  of  the  heart ', 
There  v.; alter  Dick,  with  Bacchanalian  lays, 
Shall  win  his  heart,  and  have  his  drunken  praise  ,  215 
His  counsellor  and  bosom  friend  shall  prove, 
And  some  street-pacing  harlot  his  first  love. 
Schools,  unless  discipline  were  doubly  strong, 
Detain  their  adolescent  charge  too  long  ; 
The  management  of  tyroes  of  eighteen  220 

Is  difficult,  their  punishment  obscene. 
The  stout  tall  captain,  whose  superiour  size 
The  minor  heroes  view  with  envious  eyes, 
Becomes  their  pattern,  upon  whom  they  fix 
Their  whole  attention,  and  ape  all  his  tricks.  225 

His  pride,  that  scorns  t'  obey  or  to  submit, 
With  them  is  courage  j  his  effront'ry,  wit. 
His  wild  excursions,  window-breaking  feats, 
Robb'ry  of  gardens,  quarrels  in  the  streets,  229 

His  hairbreadth  'scapes,  and  all  his  daring  schemes, 
Transport  them,  and  are  made  their  fav'rite  themes. 
In  little  bosoms  such  achievements  strike 
A  kindred  spark  :  they  burn  to  do  the  like  : 
Thus  half  accomplish'd  ere  he  yet  begin 
To  show  the  peeping  down  upon  his  chin  ;  235 

And,  as  maturity  of  years  comes  on, 
Made  just  th'  adept  that  you  design'd  your  son  , 
T'  ensure  the  perseverance  of  Lis  course, 
And  give  your  monstrous  project  all  its  force, 
Send  him  to  college.     If  he  there  be  tam'd,  240 

Or  in  one  article  of  vice  reclaim'd, 
Where  no  regard  of  ord'nances  is  shown 
Or  look'd  for  now,  the  fault  must  be  his  own, 
Some  sneaking  virtue  lurks  in  him,  no  doubt, 
Where  neither  strumpets'  charms  nor  drinking  bout, 
Nor  gambling  practices,  can  find  it  out.  246 

Such  youths  of  spirit,  and  that  spirit  too, 
14  .♦ 


162  TIROCINIUM  :  OR, 

Ye  nurs'ries  of  our  boys,  we  owe  to  you  : 

Though  from  ourselves  the  mischief  more  proceeds, 

For  publick  schools  'tis  publick  folly  feeds.  250 

The  slaves  of  custom  and  establish'd  mode, 

With  packhorse  constancy  we  keep  the  road, 

Crooked  or  straight,  through  quags  or  thorny  dells, 

True  to  the  jingling  of  our  leader's  bells. 

To  follow  foolish  precedents,  and  wink  255 

With  both  our  eyes,  is  easier  than  to  think ; 

And  such  an  age  as  ours  balks  no  expense, 

Except  of  caution,  and  of  common  sense ; 

Else  sure  notorious  fact  and  proof  so  plain, 

Would  turn  our  steps  into  a  wiser  train.  260 

I  blame  not  those  who,  with  what  care  they  can, 

O'erwatch  the  numerous  and  unruly  clan; 

Or,  if  I  blame,  'tis  only  that  they  dare 

Promise  a  work,  of  which  they  must  despair. 

Have  ye,  ye  sage  intendants  of  the  whole,  265 

A  ubiquarian  presence  and  control — 

Elisha's  eye,  that,  when  Gehazi  stray'd. 

Went  with  him,  and  saw  all  the  game  he  play'd? 

Yes— ye  are  conscious  ;  and  on  all  the  shelves 

Your  pupils  strike  upon,  have  struck  yourselves,     270 

Or  if,  by  nature  sober,  ye  had  then. 

Boys  as  ye  were,  the  gravity  of  men ; 

Ye  knew  at  least,  by  constant  proofs  address'd 

To  ears  and  eyes,  the  vices  of  the  rest. 

But  ye  connive  at  what  ye  cannot  cure,  275 

And  evils,  not  to  be  endur'd,  endure. 

Lest  pow'r  exerted,  but  without  success, 

Should  make  the  little  ye  retain  still  less. 

Ye  once  v/ere  justly  fam'd  for  bringing  forth 

Undoubted  scholarsliip  and  genuine  worth  ;  280 

And  in  the  firmament  of  fame  still  siiines 

A  glory,  bright  as  that  of  all  the  signs, 

Of  poets  rais'd  by  you,  and  statesmen,  and  divines. 

Peace  to  them  all !  those  brilliant  times  are  fled, 

And  no  such  lights  are  kindling  in  their  stead.        235 


I 


V^       OF   THE 

A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLaf''''^  ^^  \ii  E  B.  vj 

Our  striplings  shine  indeed,  bi\t  with  auch  rays,  ^  ^  i 

As  set  the  midnight  riot  in  a  blaze  ;  '^^^^   *  ^T'^]"'  ' "  1  > 


And  seem,  if  judg'd  by  their  expressive  looks, 
Deeper  in  none  than  in  their  surgeons'  books. 

Say,  Muse,  (for  education  made  the  song,  290 

No  muse  can  hesitate,  or  linger  long,) 
What  causes  move  us,  knowing  as  we  must, 
That  these  menageries  all  fail  their  trust, 
To  send  our  sons  to  scout  and  scamper  there, 
While  colts  and  puppies  cost  us  so  much  care  ?       295 

Be  it  a  weakness,  it  deserves  some  praise. 
We  love  the  play -place  of  our  early  days  ; 
The  scene  is  touching,  and  the  heart  is  stone 
That  feels  not  at  that  sight,  and  feels  at  none. 
The  wall  on  which  we  tried  our  graving  skill,         300 
The  very  name  we  carv'd  subsisting  still ; 
The  bench  on  which  we  sat  while  deep  employ'd, 
Tho'  mangled,  hack'd,  and  hew'd,  not  yet  destroyed , 
The  little  ones,  unbotton'd,  glowing  hot. 
Playing  our  games,  and  on  the  very  spot  j  305 

As  happy  as  we  once,  to  kneel  and  draw 
The  chalky  ring,  and  knuckle  down  at  taw ; 
To  pitch  the  ball  into  the  grounded  hat, 
Or  drive  it  devious  with  a  dext'rous  pat ; 
The  pleasing  spectacle  at  once  excites  310 

Such  recollection  of  our  own  delights, 
That,  viewing  it,  we  seem  almost  t'  obtain 
Our  innocent  sweet  simple  years  again. 
This  fond  attachment  to  the  well-known  place, 
Whence  first  we  started  into  life's  long  race,  315 

Maintains  its  hold  with  suck  unfailing  sway. 
We  feel  it  e'en  in  age,  and  at  our  latest  day. 
Hark  !  how  the  sire  of  chits,  whose  future  share 
Of  classick  food  begins  to  be  his  care. 
With  his  own  likeness  plac'd  on  either  knee,  390 

Indulges  all  a  father's  heart-felt  glee  ; 
And  tells  them,  as  he  strokes  their  silver  locks, 
That  tliey  must  soon  learn  I^atin,  and  to  box  j 


164  TIROCINIUM  :  OR, 

Then  turning,-  he  regales  his  list'ning  wife 
With  all  the  adventures  of  his  early  life  ;  325 

His  skill  in  coachmanship,  or  driving  chaise, 
In  bilking  tavern  bills,  and  spouting  plays ; 
What  shifts  he  us'd,  detected  in  a  scrape, 
How  he  was  flogg'd  or  had  the  luck  t'  escape ; 
What  sums  he  lost  at  play,  and  how  he  sold  330 

Watch,  seals,  and  all — till  all  his  pranks  are  told. 
Retracing  thus  his  frolicks,  ('tis  a  name 
.  That  palliates  deeds  of  folly  and  of  shame,) 
He  gives  the  local  bias  all  its  sway  ; 
Resolves  that  where  he  play'd  his  sons  shall  play,  335 
And  destines  their  bright  genius  to  be  shown 
Just  in  the  scene  where  he  display'd  his  own. 
The  meek  and  bashful  boy  will  soon  be  taught, 
To  be  as  bold  and  forward  as  he  ought ; 
The  rude  will  scuffle  through  with  ease  enough,     340 
Great  schools  suit  best  the  sturdy  and  the  rough. 
Ah  happy  designation,  prudent  choice, 
Th'  event  is  sure  ;  expect  it,  and  rejoice  ! 
Soon  see  your  wish  fulfill'd  in  either  child — 
The  pert  made  perter,  and  the  tame  made  wild.      345 

The  great,  indeed,  by  titles,  riches,  birth, 
Excus'd  th'  encumbrance  of  more  solid  worth. 
Are  best  dispos'd  of  where  with  most  success 
They  may  acquire  that  confident  address. 
Those  habits  of  profuse  and  lewd  expense,  350 

That  scorn  of  all  delights  but  those  of  sense, 
Which,  though  in  plain  plebeians  we  condemn. 
With  so  much  reason  all  expect  from  them. 
But  families  of  less  illustrious  fame. 
Whose  chief  distinction  is  their  spotless  name,        355 
Whose  heirs,  their  honours  none,  their  income  small. 
Must  shine  by  true  desert,  or  not  at  all, 
What  dream  they  of,  that  with  so  little  care 
They  risk  their  hopes,  their  dearest  treasure  there  ? 
They  dream  of  little  Charles  or  William  grac'd       360 
With  wig  prolix,  down  flowing  to  his  waist : 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  165 

Tb.ey  see  th'  attentive  crowds  his  talents  draw : 
They  hear  him  speak — the  oracle  of  law. 
The  father,  who  designs  his  babe  a  priest, 
Dreams  him  episcopally  such  at  least ;  365 

And  while  the  playful  jockey  scours  the  room 
Briskly,  astride  upon  the  parlour  broom, 
[n  fancy  sees  him  more  superbly  ride 
In  coach  with  purple  lin'd,  and  mitres  on  its  side. 
Events  improbable  and  strange  as  these,  370 

Which  only  a  parental  eye  foresees, 
A  publick  school  shall  brin^  to  pass  with  ease. 
But  how  !  Resides  such  virtue  in  that  air, 
As  must  create  an  appetite  for  pray'r  ? 
And  will  it  breathe  into  him  all  the  zeal,  375 

That  candidates  for  such  a  prize  should  feel, 
To  take  the  lead  and  be  the  foremost  still 
In  all  true  worth  and  literary  skill  1 
**  Ah,  blind  to  bright  futurity,  untaught 
The  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  dull  of  thought.'' 
Church-ladders  are  not  always  mounted  best  380 

By  learned  clerks,  and  Latinists  profass'd. 
Th'  exalted  prize  demands  an  upward  look, 
Not  to  be  found  by  poring  on  a  book. 
Small  skill  in  Latin,  and  still  less  in  Greek,  385 

Is  more  than  adequate  to  all  I  seek. 
Let  erudition  grace  him  or  not  grace, 
I  give  the  bauble  but  the  second  place  ; 
His  wealth,  fame,  honours,  all  that  I  intend, 
Subsist  and  centre  in  one  point — a  friend.  390 

A  friend,  whate'er  he  studies  or  neglects. 
Shall  give  him  consequence,  heal  all  defects. 
His  intercourse  with  peers  and  sons  of  peers, 
There  dawns  the  splendour  of  his  future  years  : 
In  that  bright  quarter  his  propitious  skies  395 

Shall  blush  betimes,  and  there  his  glory  rise. 
Your  Lordship  and  Your  Grace  !  what  school  can  teach 
A  rhet'rick  equal  to  those  parts  of  speech  ! 
What  need  of  Homer's  verse,  or  Tully's  prose, 


166  TIROCINIUM  :  OR, 

Sweet  interjections  !  if  he  learn  but  those  ?  400 

Let  rcv'rend  churls  his  ignorance  rebulie, 

Who  starv'd  upon  a  dog's-ear'd  Pentateuch, 

The  parson  knows  enough,  who  knows  a  duke." 

Egregious  purpose  !  worthily  begun 

In  barb'rous  prostitution  of  your  son  ;  405 

Press'd  on  his  part  by  means  that  would  disgrace 

A  scriv'ner's  clerk,  or  footman  out  of  place, 

And  ending,  if  at  last  its  end  be  gain'd, 

In  sacrilege,  in  God's  own  house  profan'd  ! 

It  may  succeed  ;  and,  if  his  sins  should  call  410 

For  more  than  common  punishment,  it  shall ; 

The  wretch  shall  rise,  and  be  the  thing  on  earth 

Least  qualified  in  honour,  learning,  worth, 

To  occupy  a  sacred  awful  post, 

In  which  the  best  and  worthiest  tremble  most.        415 

The  royal  letters  are  a  thing  of  course, 

A  king,  that  would,  might  recommend  his  .\iorfie ; 

And  deans,  no  doubt,  and  chapters  with  one  voice, 

As  bound  in  duty,  would  confirm  the  choice. 

Behold  your  bishop  ;  well  he  plays  his  part,         .    420 

Christian  in  name,  and  infidel  in  heart, 

Ghostly  in  office,  earthly  in  his  plan, 

A  slave  at  court,  elsewhere  a  lady's  man. 

Dumb  as  a  senator,  and  as  a  priest 

A  piece  of  mere  church  furniture  at  best ;  423 

To  live  estrang'd  from  God  his  total  scope, 

And  his  end  sure,  without  one  glimpse  of  hope. 

But  fair  although  and  feasible  it  seem. 

Depend  not  much  upon  your  golden  dream  : 

For  Providence,  that  seems  concern'd  t'  exempt      430 

The  hallow'd  bench  from  absolute  contempt, 

In  spite  of  all  the  wrigglers  into  place. 

Still  keeps  a  seat  or  two  for  worth  and  grace ; 

And  therefore  'tis  that  though  the  sight  be  rare. 

We  sometimes  see  a  Lowth  or  Bagot  there.  435 

Besides,  school-friendships  are  not  always  found, 

Though  fair  in  promise,  permanent  and  sound ; 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  167 

The  most  disint'rested  and  virtuous  minds, 

In  early  years  connected,  time  unbinds, 

New  situations  give  a  difTrent  cast  440 

Of  habit,  inclination,  temper,  taste  ; 

And  he  that  seem'd  our  counterpart  at  first, 

Soon  shows  the  strong  similitude  revers'd. 

Young  heads  are  giddy,  and  young  hearts  are  warm, 

And  make  mistakes  for  manhood  to  reform.  445 

Boys  are  at  best  but  pretty  buds  unblown, 

Whose  scent  and  hues  are  rather  guess'd  than  known ; 

Each  dreams  that  each  is  just  what  he  appears. 

But  learns  his  errour  in  maturer  years. 

When  disposition,  like  a  sail  unfurl'd,  450 

Shows  all  its  rents  and  patches  to  the  world 

If,  therefore,  e'en  when  honest  in  design, 

A  boyish  friendship  may  so  soon  decline, 

'Twere  wiser  sure  t'  inspire  a  little  heart 

With  just  abhorrence  of  so  mean  a  part,  455 

Than  set  your  son  to  work  at  a  vile  trade 

For  wages  so  un'iikely  to  be  paid. 

Our  publick  hives  of  puerile  resort. 
That  are  of  chief  and  most  appro v'd  report, 
To  such  base  hopes,  in  many  a  sordid  soul,  460 

Owe  their  repute  in  part,  but  not  the  whole. 
A  principle,  whose  proud  pretensions  pass 
Unquestion'd,  though  the  jewel  be  but  glass — 
That  with  a  world,  not  often  over  nice. 
Ranks  as  a  virtue,  and  is  yet  a  vice  ;  465 

Or  rather  a  gross  compound,  justly  tried. 
Of  envy,  hatred,  jealousy,  and  pride — 
Contributes  most  perhaps  t'  enhance  their  fame 
And  emulation  is  its  specious  name. 
Boys,  once  on  tire  with  that  contentious  zeal,  470 

Feel  all  the  rage  that  female  rivals  feel ; 
The  prize  of  beauty  in  a  woman's  eyes 
Not  brighter  than  in  theirs  the  scholar's  prize 
The  spirit  of  that  competition  burns 
With  all  varieties  of  ill  by  turns  j  476 


168  TIROCINIUM:  OR, 

Each  vainly  magnifies  his  own  success, 

Resents  his  fellow's,  wishes  it  were  less, 

Exults  in  his  miscarriage  if  he  fail, 

Deems  lis  reward  too  great  if  he  prevail, 

And  labours  to  surpass  him  day  and  night,  480 

Less  for  improvement  than  to  tickle  spite. 

The  spur  is  pow'rful,  and  I  grant  its  force  ; 

It  pricks  the  genius  forward  in  its  course. 

Allows  short  time  for  play,  and  none  for  sloth ; 

And,  felt  alike  by  each,  advances  both  :  485 

But  judge,  where  so  much  evil  intervenes. 

The  end,  though  plausible,  not  worth  the  means. 

Weigh,  for  a  moment,  classical  desert 

Against  a  heart  d^prav'd  and  temper  hurt ; 

Hurt,  too,  perhaps,  for  life  ;  for  early  wrong,  490 

Done  to  the  nobler  part,  affects  it  long  ; 

And  you  are  stanch  indeed  in  learning's  cause,  / 

If  you  can  crown  a  discipline,  that  draws 

Such  mischiefs  after  it  with  much  applause. 

Connexion  form'd  for  int'rest,  and  endear 'd  495 

By  selfish  views,  thus  censur'd  and  cashier'd : 
And  emulation,  as  engend'ring  hate, 
Doom'd  to  a  no  less  ignominious  fate  : 
The  props  of  such  proud  seminaries  fall. 
The  Jachin  and  the  Boaz  of  them  all.  500 

Great  schools  rejected  then,  as  those  that  swell 
Beyond  a  size  that  can  be  manag'd  well. 
Shall  royal  institutions  miss  the  bays, 
And  small  academies  win  all  the  praise  ? 
Force  not  my  drift  beyound  its  just  intent,  505 

I  praise  a  school  as  Pope  a  government ; 
So  take  my  judgment  in  his  language  dress'd, 
"  Whate'er  is  best  administer'd  is  best." 
Few  boys  are  born  with  talents  that  excel. 
But  all  are  capable  of  living  well ;  510 

Then  ask  not,  Whether  limited  or  large  ? 
But,  Watch  they  strictly,  or  neglect  their  charge? 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  -.  169 

If  anxious  only,  that  their  boys  may  Zea-n, 

While  morals  languish,  a  despis'd  concern, 

The  great  and  small  deserve  one  common  blame,   515 

DiiTrent  in  size,  but  in  effect  the  same. 

Much  zeal  in  virtue's  cause  all  teachers  boast, 

Though  motives  of  mere  lucre  sway  the  most ; 

Therefore  in  towns  and  cities  they  abound. 

For  there  the  game  they  seek  is  easiest  found ;       520 

Though  there,  in  spite  of  all  that  care  can  do, 

Traps  to  catch  youth  are  more  abundant  too. 

If  shrewd,  and  of  a  well-constructed  brain, 

Keen  in  pursuit,  and  vig'rous  to  retain. 

Your  son  come  forth  a  prodigy  of  skill ;  525 

As,  wheresoever  taught,  so  form'd  he  will ; 

The  pedagogue,  with  self-complacent  air, 

Claims  more  than  half  the  praise  as  his  due  share. 

But  if,  with  all  his  genius,  he  betray, 

Not  more  intelligent  than  loose  and  gay,  530 

Such  vicious  habits  as  disgrace  his  name. 

Threaten  his  health,  his  fortune,  and  his  fame ; 

Though  want  of  due  restraint  alone  have  bred 

The  symptoms,  that  you  see  with  so  much  dread : 

Unenvied  there,  he  may  sustain  alone  535 

The  whole  reproach,  the  fault  was  all  his  own. 

O  'tis  a  sight  to  be  with  joy  perus'd, 
By  all  whom  sentiment  has  not  abus'd  , 
New-fangled  sentiment,  the  boasted  grace 
Of  those  who  never  feel  in  the  right  place  ;  540 

A  sight  surpass'd  by  none  that  we  can  show, 
Though  Vestris  on  one  leg  still  shine  belo'Y ; 
A  father  blest  with  an  ingenuous  son, 
Father,  and  frier.d,  and  tutor,  all  in  one  ; 
How  ! — turn  again  to  tales  long  since  forgot,  545 

^sop,  and  Phaedrus,  and  the  rest  ? — Why  not  ? 
He  will  nut  blush,  that  has  a  father's  heart. 
To  take  in  childish  plays  a  childish  part ; 
But  bends  his  sturdy  back  to  any  toy 
That  youth  takes  pleasure  in,  to  please  his  boy ;     550 

Vol.  XL  15 


^. 


170      -  TIROCINIUM:  OR, 

Then  why  resign  into  a  stranger's  hand 

A  task  as  much  within  your  own  command, 

That  God  and  Nature,  and  your  int'rest  too 

Seem  with  one  voice  to  delegate  to  you  ? 

Why  hire  a  lodging  in  a  house  unknown  555 

For  one,  whose  tend'rest  thoughts  all  hover  round 

your  own  ? 
This  second  weaning,  needless  as  it  is, 
How  does  it  lac'rate  both  your  heart  and  his  1 
Th'  indented  stick,  that  loses  day  by  day 
Notch  after  notch,  till  all  are  smooth'd  away,  560 

Bears  witness,  long  ere  his  dismission  come, 
With  what  intense  desire  he  wants  his  home. 
But  though  the  joys  he  hopes  beneath  your  roof 
Bid  fair  enough  to  answer  in  the  proof. 
Harmless,  and  safe,  and  nat'ral,  as  they  are  565 

A  disappointment  waits  him  even  there  : 
Arriv'd,  he  feels  an  unexpected  change, 
He  blushes,  hangs  his  head,  is  shy  and  strange ; 
No  longer  takes,  as  once,  with  fearless  ease. 
His  fav'rite  stand  between  his  father's  knees,  670 

But  seeks  the  corner  of  some  distant  seat. 
And  eyes  the  door,  and  watches  a  retreat ; 
And,  least  familiar  where  he  should  be  most, 
Feels  all  his  happiest  privileges  lost. 
Alas,  poor  boy  ! — the  natural  effect  575 

Of  love  by  absence  chill'd  into  respect. 
Say,  what  accomplishments,  at  school  acquir*d, 
Brings  he  to  sweeten  fruits  so  undesir'd  ? 
Thou  well  deserv'st  an  alienated  son. 
Unless  thy  conscious  heart  acknowledge — none  ;    58(J 
None  that,  in  thy  domestick  snug  recess. 
He  had  not  made  his  own  with  more  address. 
Though  some,  perhaps,  that  shock  thy  feeling  mind, 
And  better  never  learn'd,  or  left  behind. 
Add,  too,  that,  thus  estrang'd,  thou  canst  obtain      585 
By  no  kind  arts  his  confidence  again  ^ 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  171 

I'hat  here  begins  with  most  that  long  complamt 
Of  fiUal  frankness  lost,  and  love  grown  faint ; 
Which,  oft  neglected  in  life's  waning  years 
A  parent  pours  into  regardless  ears.  590 

Like  caterpillars  dangling  under  trees 
By  slender  threads,  and  swinging  in  the  breeze, 
Which  filthily  bewray  and  sore  disgrace 
The  boughs  in  which  are  bred  th'  unseemly  race  ; 
While  ev'ry  worm  industriously  weaves  595 

And  winds  his  web  about  the  rivell'd  leaves ; 
So  num'rous  are  the  follies  that  annoy 
The  mind  and  heart  of  ev'ry  sprightly  boy ; 
Imaginations  noxious  and  perverse, 
Which  admonition  can  alone  disperse,  600 

Th'  encroaching  nuisance  asks  a  faithful  hand, 
Patient,  affectionate,  of  high  command, 
To  check  the  procreation  of  a  breed 
Sure  to  exhaust  the  plant  on  which  they  feed. 
'Tis  not  enough,  that  Greek  or  Roman  page,  605 

At  stated  hours,  his  freakish  thoughts  engage  ; 
E'en  in  his  pastimes  he  requires  a  friend 
To  warn,  and  teach  him  safely  to  unbend 
O'er  all  his  pleasures  gently  to  preside, 
Watch  his  emotions,  and  control  their  tide  ;  610 

And  levying  thus,  and  with  an  easy  sway, 
A  tax  of  profit  from  his  very  play, 
T'  impress  a  value  not  to  be  eras'd, 
On  moments  squander'd  else,  and  running  all  to  waste 
And  seems  it  nothing  in  a  father's  eye,  615 

That  unimprov'd  those  many  moments  fly 
And  is  he  well  content  his  son  should  find 
No  nourishment  to  feed  his  growing  mind, 
But  conjugated  verbs,  and  nouns  declin'd  ? 
For  such  is  all  the  mental  food  purvey 'd  620 

By  publick  hacknies  in  the  schooling  trade ; 
Who  feed  a  pupil's  intellect  with  store 
Of  syntax,  truly,  but  with  little  more  ; 


172  TIROCINIUM :  OR, 

Dismiss  their  cares,  when  they  dismiss  their  flock, 

Machines  themselves,  and  govern'd  by  a  clock.        (S5 

Perhaps  a  father,  bless'd  with  any  brains, 

Would  deem  it  no  abuse,  or  waste  of  pains, 

T'  improve  this  diet,  at  no  great  expense. 

With  sav'ry  truth  and  wholesome  common  sense : 

To  lead  his  son,  for  prospects  of  deKght,  630 

To  some  not  steep,  though  philosophick  height, 

Thence  to  exhibit  to  his  wond'ring  eyes 

Yon  circling  worlds,  their  distance  and  their  size, 

The  moons  of  Jove,  and  Saturn's  belted  baU, 

And  the  harmonious  order  of  them  all ;  635 

To  show  him  in  an  insect  or  a  flow'r 

Such  microscopick  proof  of  skill  and  powr, 

As,  hid  from  ages  past,  God  now  displays, 

To  combat  atheists  with  in  modern  days ; 

To  spread  the  earth  before  him,  and  commend         640 

With  designation  of  the  fingers'  end, 

Its  various  parts  to  his  attentive  note, 

Thus  bringing  home  to  him  the  most  remote  ; 

To  teacii  his  lieart  to  glow  with  gen'rous  flame, 

Caught  from  the  deeds  of  men  of  ancient  fame ;     645 

And,  more  than  all,  with  commendation  due, 

To  set  some  living  worthy  in  his  view. 

Whose  fair  example  may  at  once  inspire 

A  wish  to  copy  what  he  must  admire. 

Such  knowledge  gain'd  betimes,  and  which  appears 

l^hough  solid,  not  too  weighty  for  his  years,  651 

Swecl  in  itself,  and  not  forbidding  sport, 

\Vhen  health  demands  it,  of  athletick  sort, 

Would  make  him — what  some  lovely  boys  have  been, 

And  more  than  one,  perhaps,  that  I  have  seen —    655 

An  evidence  and  reprehension  both 

Of  the  mere  school-boy's  lean  and  tardy  growth 

Art  thou  a  nnin  professionally  tied, 
Wit})  all  thy  faculties  elsewhere  applied,; 
Too  busy  to  intend  a  meaner  care,  -  660 

Than  how  t'  enrich  thyself,  and  next  thine  heir ; 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  173 

Or  art  thou  (as,  though  rich,  perhaps  thou  art ) 
But  poor  in  knowledge,  having  none  t'  impart' 
Behold  that  figure,  neat,  though  plainly  clad  ; 
His  sprightly  mingled  with  a  shade  of  sad ;  665 

Not  of  a  nimble  tongue,  though  now  and  then 
Heard  to  articulate  like  other  men ; 
No  jester,  and  yet  lively  in  discourse, 
His  phrase  well  chosen,  clear,  and  full  of  force 
And  his  address,  if  not  quite  French  in  ease,  670 

Not  English  stiff,  but  frank,  and  form'd  to  please . 
Low  in  the  world  because  he  scorns  its  arts  ; 
A  man  of  letters,  manners,  morals,  parts ; 
Unpatronis'd,  and  therefore  little  known  ; 
Wise  for  himself  and  his  few  friends  alone —  675 

In  him  thy  well-appointed  proxy  see, 
Arm'd  for  a  work  too  difficult  for  thee  ; 
Prepar'd  by  taste,  by  learning,  and  true  worth, 
To  form  thy  son,  to  strike  his  genius  forth ; 
Beneath  thy  roof,  beneath  thine  eye,  to  prove  680 

The  force  of  discipline  when  back'd  by  love  j 
To  double  all  thy  pleasure  in  thy  child, 
His  mind  inform'd,  his  morals  undefil'd. 
Safe  under  such  a  wing,  the  boy  shall  show 
No  spots  contracted  among  grooms  below,  685 

Nor  taint  his  speech  with  meannesses  design'd 
By  footjnan  Tom  for  witty  and  refin'd. 
There,  in  his  commerce  with  the  liv'ried  herd, 
Lurks  the  contagion  chiefly  to  be  fear'd ; 
For  since,  (so  fashion  dictates,)  all  who  claim  690 

A  higher  than  a  mere  plebeian  fame, 
Find  it  expedient,  come  what  mischief  may. 
To  entertain  a  thief  or  two  in  pay, 
(And  they  that  can  afford  th'  expense  of  more, 
Some  half  a  dozen,  and  some  half  a  score,)  696 

Great  cause  occurs,  to  save  him  from  a  band 
So  sure  to  spoil  him,  and  so  near  at  hand ; 
A  point  secur'd,  if  once  he  be  supply'd 
With  some  such  Mentor  always  at  his  side. 
15* 


174  TIROCINIUM:  OR, 

Are  such  men  rare  ?  perhaps  they  would  abound,   700 

Were  occupation  easier  to  be  found, 

Were  education,  else  so  sure  to  fail, 

Conducted  on  a  manageable  scale, 

And  schools,  that  have  outliv'd  all  just  esteem, 

Exchang'd  for  the  secure  domestick  scheme. —        705 

But,  having  found  him,  be  thou  duke  or  earl. 

Show  thou  hast  sense  enough  to  prize  the  pearl, 

And,  as  thou  wouldst  th'  advancement  of  thine  heir 

In  all  good  faculties  beneath  his  care, 

Respect,  as  is  but  rational  and  just,  710 

A  man  deem'd  worthy  of  so  dear  a  trust. 

Despis'd  by  thee,  what  more  can  he  expect 

From  youthful  folly  than  the  same  neglect  ? 

A  flat  and  fatal  negative  obtains. 

That  instant,  upon  all  his  future  pains  ;  716 

His  lessons  tire,  his  mild  rebukes  offend, 

And  all  th'  instructions  of  thy  son's  best  friend 

Are  a  stream  chok'd,  or  trickling  to  no  end. 

Doom  him  not  then  to  solitary  meals ; 

But  recollect  that  he  has  sense,  and  feels  j  720 

And  that,  possessor  of  a  soul  refin'd. 

An  upright  heart  and  cultivated  mind, 

His  post  not  mean,  his  talents  not  unknown, 

He  deems  it  hard  to  vegetate  alone. 

And,  if  admitted  at  thy  board  he  sit,  ,       725 

Account  him  no  just  mark  for  idle  wit ; 

Offend  not  him,  whom  modesty  restrains 

From  repartee,  with  jokes  that  he  disdains ; 

Much  less  transfix  his  feelings  with  an  oath  ; 

Nor  frown,  unless  he  vanish  with  the  cloth.  730 

And,  trust  me,  his  utility  may  reach 

To  more  than  he  is  hir'd  or  bound  to  teach ; 

Much  trash  unutter'd,  and  some  ills  undone, 

Through  rev'rence  of  the  censor  of  thy  son. 

But,  if  thy  table  be  indeed  unclean,  735 

Foul  with  excess,  and  with  discourse  obscene, 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  17^ 

And  thou  a  wretch,  whom,  foil* wing  her  own  plan 

The  world  accounts  an  honourable  man, 

Because  forsooth  thy  courage  has  been  tri^ 

And  stood  the  test,  perhaps  on  the  wrong  side ;      740 

Though  thou  hadst  never  grace  enough  to  prove 

That  any  thing  but  vice  could  win  thy  love ; — 

Or  hast  thou  a  polite,  card-playing  wife, 

Chain'd  to  the  routs  that  she  frequents  for  life ; 

Who,  just  when  industry  begins  to  snore,  745 

Flies,  wing'd  with  joy,  to  some  coach-crowded  door  ; 

And  thrice  in  ever}  winter  throngs  thine  own 

With  half  the  chariots  and  sedans  in  town, 

Thyself  meanwhile  e'en  shifting  as  thou  mayst , 

Not  very  sober  though,  nor  very  chaste  ;  760 

Or  is  thine  house,  though  less  superb  thy  rank 

If  not  a  scene  of  pleasure,  a  mere  blank. 

And  thou  at  best,  and  in  thy  sob'rest  mood, 

A  trifler,  vain  and  empty  of  all  good  ; 

Though  mercy  for  thyself  thou  canst  have  none,    755 

Hear  Nature  plead,  show  mercy  to  thy  son. 

Sav'd  from  his  home,  where  every  day  brings  forth 

Some  mischief  fatal  to  his  future  worth, 

Find  him  a  better  in  a  distant  spot. 

Within  some  pious  pastor's  humble  cot,  760 

Where  vile  example,  (yours  I  chiefly  mean, 

The  most  seducing,  and  the  oft'nest  seen,) 

May  never  more  be  stamp'd  upon  his  breast, 

Nor  yet  perhaps  incurably  impress'd. 

Where  early  rest  makes  early  rising  sure,  765 

Disease  or  comes  not,  or  finds  easy  cure 

Prevented  much  by  diet  neat  and  plain ; 

Or,  if  it  enter,  soon  starv'd  out  again : 

Where  all  th'  attention  of  his  faithful  host, 

Discreetly  limited  to  two  at  most,  770 

May  raise  such  fruits  as  shall  reward  his  care. 

And  not  at  last  evaporate  in  air ; 

Where,  stillness  aiding  study,  and  his  mind 

Serene,  and  to  his  duties  much  inclined. 


-^--1 


176  TIROCINIUM .  OR, 

Not  occupied  m  day-dreams,  as  at  home,  775 

Of  pleasures  past,  or  follies  yet  to  come. 

His  virtuoils  toil  may  terminate  at  last 

In  settled  habit  and  decided  taste. — 

But  whom  do  I  advise  ?  the  fashion  led, 

Th'  incorrigibly  wrong,  the  deaf,  the  dead,  780 

Whom  care  and  cool  deliberation  suit 

Not  better  much  than  spectacles  a  brute  ; 

Who,  if  their  sons  some  slight  tuition  share. 

Deem  it  of  no  great  moment  whose,  or  where ; 

Too  proud  t'  adopt  the  thoughts  of  one  unknown   785 

And  much  too  gay  t'  have  any  of  their  own. 

But  courage,  man  !  methought  the  muse  replied 

Mankind  are  various,  and  the  world  is  wide  : 

The  ostrich,  silliest  of  the  feather'd  kind. 

And  form'd  of  God  without  a  parent's  mind,  790 

Commits  her  eggs,  incautious,  to  the  dust, 

Forgetful  that  the  foot  may  crush  the  trust ; 

And,  while  on  publick  nurs'ries  they  rely, 

Not  knowing,  and  too  oft  not  caring,  why. 

Irrational  in  what  they  thus  prefer  795 

No  few,  that  would  seem  wise,  resemble  her. 

But  all  are  not  alike      Thy  warning  voice 

May  here  and  there  prevent  erroneous  choice  ; 

And  some  perhaps,  who,  busy  as  they  are. 

Yet  make  their  progeny  their  dearest  care,  800 

(Whose   hearts  will  ache,  once   told   what  ills  may 

reach 
Their  offspring,  left  upon  so  wild  a  beach,) 
Will  need  no  stress  of  argument  t'  enforce 
Th'  expedience  of  a  less  advent'rous  course  ; 
The  rest  will  slight  thy  counsel  or  condemn  ;  805 

But  they  have  human  feelings — turn  to  them. 
To  you  then,  tenants  of  life's  middle  state. 
Securely  plac'd  between  the  small  and  great, 
Whose  character,  yet  undebauch'd,  retains 
Two  thirds  of  all  the  virtue  that  remains,  810 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  177 

Who,  wise  yourselves,  desire  your  son  should  learn 

Your  wisdom  and  your  ways — to  you  i  turn. 

Look  round  you  on  a  world  perversely  blind  : 

See  what  contempt  is  fall'n  on  human  kind ; 

See  wealth  abus'd,  and  dignities  misplac'd,  316 

Great  titles,  offices,  and  trusts  disgrac'd,  m 

Long  lines  of  ancestry,  renown'd  of  old, 

Their  noble  qualities  all  quench'd  and  cold  j 

See  Bedlam's  closeted  and  hand-cufTd  charge 

Surpass'd  in  frenzy  by  the  mad  at  large  ;  820 

See  great  commanders  making  war  a  trade  , 

Great  lawyers  lawyers  without  study  made  : 

Churchmen,  in  whose  esteem  their  best  employ 

Is  odious,  and  their  wages  all  their  joy ; 

Who,  far  enough  from  furnishing  their  shelves       825 

With  gospel  lore,  turn  infidels  themselves ; 

See  womanhood  despis'd,  and  manhood  sham'd 

With  infamy  too  nauseous  to  be  nam'd  ; 

Fops  at  all  corners,  lady -like  in  mien, 

Give  ted  fellows,  smelt  ere  they  are  seen,  830 

Else  coarse  and  rude  in  manners,  and  their  tongue 

On  fire  with  curses,  and  with  nonsense  hung, 

Now  flush'd  with  drunk'nness,   now  with  whoredom 

pale, 
Their  breath  a  sample  of  last  night's  regale  ; 
See  vtJTunteers  in  all  the  vilest  arts  835 

Man  well  endow'd,  of  honourable  parts, 
Design'd  by  Nature  wise,  but  self-made  fools , 
All  these,  and  more  like  these,  were  bred  at  schools, 
And  if  it  chance,  as  sometimes  chance  it  will. 
That  though  school-bred  the  boy  be  virtuous  still  j  840 
Such  rare  exceptions,  shining  in  the  dark 
Prove,  rather  than  impeach,  the  just  remark  . 
As  here  and  there  a  twinkling  star  descrie^r 
Serves  but  to  show  how  black  is  all  beside. 
Now  look  on  him,  whose  very  voice  in  tone  845 

Just  echoes  thine,  whose  features  are  thine  own, 


178  TIROCINIUM:  OR, 

iiid  stroke  his  polish'd  cheek  of  purest  red, 
And  lay  thine  hand  upon  his  flaxen  head, 
And  say,  My  boy,  th'  unwelcome  hour  is  come, 
When  thou,  transplanted  from  thy  genial  home,      850 
Must  find  a  colder  soil  and  bleaker  air. 
And  t^st  for  safety  to  a  stranger's  care  ; 
What  character,  what  turn  thou  wilt  assume 
From  constant  converse  with  I  know  not  whom  j 
Who  there  will  court  thy  friendship,  with  what  views, 
And,  artless  as  thou  art,  whom  thou  wilt  choose  ;    856 
Though  much  depends  on  what  thy  choice  shall  be, 
Is  all  chance-medley,  and  unknown  to  me. 
Canst  thou,  the  tear  just  trembling  on  thy  lids, 
And  while  the  dreadful  risk  foreseen  forbids  ;  860 

Free  too,  and  under  no  constraining  force, 
Unless  the  sway  of  custom  warp  thy  course } 
Lay  such  a  stake  upon  the  losing  side 
Merely  to  gratify  so  blind  a  guide  ? 
Thou  canst  not !  Nature,  pulling  at  thine  heart,     865 
Condemns  th'  unfatherly,  th'  imprudent  part. 
Thou  wouldst  not,  deaf  to  Nature's  tend'rest  plea, 
Turn  him  adrift  upon  a  rolling  sea. 
Nor  say,  Go  thither,  conscious  that  there  lay 
A  brc  od  of  asps  or  quicksands  in  his  way  ;  870 

Then,  only  govern'd  by  the  self-same  rule 
Of  nat'ral  pity,  send  him  not  to  school. 
No — guard  him  better.     Is  he  not  thine  own, 
Thyself  in  miniature,  thy  flesh,  thy  bone  .' 
And  hop'st  thou  not,  ('tis  ev'ry  father's  hope,)         875 
That  since  thy  strength  must  with  thy  years  elope, 
And  thou  wilt  need  some  comfort  to  assuage 
Health's  last  farewell,  a  staff"  in  thine  old  age, 
Tliat  then,  in  recompense  of  all  thy  cares, 
Thy  child  shall  show  respect  to  thy  gray  hairs,       880 
Befriend  thee,  of  all  other  friends  bereft, 
And  give  thy  life  its  only  cordial  left ! 
Aware  then  how  much  danger  intervenes. 
To  compass  that  good  end  forecast  the  means, 


Ij 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  179 

His  heart,  now  passive,  yields  to  thy  command;     885 

Secure  it  thine,  its  key  is  in  thine  hand. 

If  thou  desert  thy  charge,  and  throw  it  wide, 

Nor  heed  what  guest  there  enter  and  ahide, 

Complain  not  if  attachments  lewd  and  base 

Supplant  thee  in  it,  and  usurp  thy  place  890 

But,  if  thou  guard  its  sacred  chambers  sure 

From  vicious  inmates  and  delights  impure, 

Either  his  gratitude  shall  hold  him  fast, 

And  keep  him  warm  and  filial  to  the  last ; 

Or,  if  he  prove  unkind,  (as  who  can  say  895 

But,  being  man,  and  therefore  frail,  he  may  ?) 

One  comfort  yet  shall  cheer  thine  aged  heart, 

Howe'er  he  slight  thee,  thou  hast  done  thy  part. 

O  barb'rous  !  wouldst  thou  with  a  Gothick  hand 
Pull  down  the  schools — what ! — all  th'  schools  i'  th' 
land ;  900 

Or  throw  them  up  to  liv'ry  nags  and  grooms, 
Or  turn  them  into  shops  and  auction  rooms  ? 
A  captious  question,  sir,  (and  yours  is  one,) 
Deserves  an  answer  similar  or  none. 
Wouldst  thou,  possessor  of  a  flock,  employ,  905 

(Appris'd  that  he  is  such,)  a  careless  boy, 
And  feed  him  well,  and  give  him  handsome  pay, 
Merely  to  sleep,  and  let  them  run  astray  ? 
Survey  our  schools  and  colleges,  and  see 
A  sight  not  much  unlike  my  simile.  910 

From  education,  as  the  leading  cause, 
The  publick  character  its  colour  draws ; 
Thence  the  prevailing  manners  take  their  cast, 
Extravagant  or  sober,  loose  or  chaste. 
And,  though  I  would  not  advertise  them  yet,  915 

Nor  write  on  each — This  building  to  be  let, 
Unless  the  world  were  all  prepar'd  t'  embrace 
A  plan  well  worthy  to  supply  their  place  ; 
Yet,  backward  as  they  are,  and  long  have  been. 
To  cultivate  and  keep  the  morals  clean,  920 


(180) 
TO  THE  REV.  MR.  NEWTON. 

AN  INVITATION  INTO  THE  COUNTRY* 


THE  swallows  in  their  torpid  state 

Compose  their  useless  wing, 
And  bees  in  hives  as  idly  wait 

The  call  of  early  Spring. 
II. 
The  keenest  frost  that  binds  the  stream^y 

The  wildest  wind  that  blows, 
Are  neither  felt  nor  fear'd  by  them^ 

Secure  of  their  repose. 
III. 
But  man,  all  feeling  and  awake, 

The  gloomy  scene  surveys  ! 
With  present  ills  his  heart  must  ache. 

And  pant  for  brighter  days. 
IV. 
Old  Winter,  halting  o'er  the  mead, 

Bids  me  and  Mary  mourn ; 
But  lovely  Spring  peeps  o'er  his  head; 

And  whispers  your  return. 
V. 
Then  April  with  her  sister  May, 

Shall  chase  him  from  the  bow'rs, 
And  weave  fresh  garlands  ev'ry  day 

To  crown  the  smiling  hours. 
VI. 
And  if  a  tear,  that  speaks  regret. 

Of  happier  times,  appear, 
A  glimpse  of  joy,  that  we  have  met, 

Shall  shine  and  dry  the  tear. 


(Mi) 


On  the  receipt  of  my  Mother's  Picture  out  of  Jior- 
folk^  the  gift  of  my  cousin  Ann  Bodham. 


O  THAT  those  lips  had  language !  Life  has  pass'd 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — ^thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same,  that  oft  in  childhood  solac'd  me ; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
*'  Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away  \" 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes, 
(Bless'd  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannick  claim 
To  quench  it,)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  sama. 

Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 
Who  bidd'st  me  honour  with  an  artless  son^, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone. 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own : 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief. 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother  !  when  I  learn'd  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  ? 
Hover'd  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son. 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun  ? 
Perhaps  thou  gav'st  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss, 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile  !  it  answers — Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  toll'd  on  thy  burial  day* 

Vol.  II.  16 


182  ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF 

I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 

And  turning-  from  my  nurs'ry  window,  drew 

A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu! 

But  was  it  such  ? — It  was — where  thou  art  gone 

Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 

May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore. 

The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more ! 

Thy  maidens,  griev'd  themselves  at  my  concern, 

Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 

What  ardently  I  wish'd,  I  long  believ'd, 

And  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived. 

By  expectation  ev'ry  day  beguil'd, 

Dupe  of  to-morroio  even  from  a  child. 

Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 

Till  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrows  spent, 

I  learn'd  at  last  submission  to  my  lot, 

But  though  I  less  deplor'd  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  mv  nurs'ry  floor  j 
And  where  the  gard'ner,  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  publick  way, 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapp*d 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  cap, 
Tis  now  become  a  hist'ry  little  known. 
That  once  we  call'd  the  past'ral  house  our  own. 
Short-liv'd  possession  !  but  the  record  fair. 
That  mem'ry  keeps  of  all  the  kindness  there, 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  efFac'd 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  trac'd. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made. 
That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid  ; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 
The  biscuit,  or  confectionary  plum, 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestow'd 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed  ; 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all. 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 


MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE  183 

Ne  er  roughen'd  by  those  cataracts  and  breass 
That  humour  interpos'd  too  often  makes ; 
All  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may  : 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 
Not  scorn'd  in  Heav'n,  though  little  notieM  here. 

Could  Time,  tiis  flight  revers'd,  restore  the  hours, 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissu'd  flow'rs, 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  prick 'd  them  into  paper  with  a  pm, 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and  smile,) 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them  here  ? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desir'd,  perhaps  I  might — 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  lov'd,  and  thou  so  much,    - 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast, 
(The  storms  all  weatiier'd  and  the  ocean  cross'd,) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well'-haven'd  isle, 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  hei:  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay  , 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !  hast  reach'd  the  shore, 
**  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar,"* 
And  thy  lov'd  consort  on  the  dang'rous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchor'd  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distress'd — 
"  Garth. 


184  ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF,  &c. 

Me  liowling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-toss'd, 
Sails  ripp'd,  seams  op'ning  wide,  and  compass  Io«t, 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosp'rous  course. 
Yet  O  the  thought,  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he  ! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not,  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthron'd,  and  rulers  of  the  Earth  ; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  jrise — 
The  son  of  parents  pass'd  into  the  skies. 
And  now  farewell — Time  unrevok'd  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wish'd  is  done, 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  t*  have  liv'd  my  childhood  o'er  again ; 
To  have  renew'd  the  joys  that  once  were  minoy 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine  ; 
And  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimick  show  of  thee, 
Time  has  but  lialf  succeeded  in  his  thefl — 
Thyself  remov'd,  thy  pow'r  to  eooth  me  left. 


FRIENDSHIP. 


•lA 


WHAT  virtue,  or  what  mental  grace, 
But  men  unqualified  and  base 

Will  boast  it  their  possession  ? 
Profusion  apes  the  nobler  part 
Of  liberality  of  heart, 

And  dulness  of  discretion. 
If  ev'iy  polishM  gem  we  find 
Illuminating  heart  or  mind, 

Provoke  to  imitation ; 
No  wonder  friendship  does  the  same. 
That  jewel  of  the  purest  flame, 

Or  rather  constellation 
No  knave  but  boldly  will  pretend 
The  requisites  that  form  a  friend, 

A  real  and  a  sound  one  ;  '*^,„, 

Nor  any  fool,  he  would  deceive,  _ ) 

But  proves  as  ready  to  believe,  >      - 

And  dream  that  he  had  found  one. 
Candid,  and  generous,  and  just. 
Boys  care  but  little  whom  they  trust. 

An  errour  soon  corrected — 
For  who  but  learns  in  riper  years, 
That  man,  when  smoothest  he  appeam 

Is  most  to  be  suspected  ? 
But  here  again  a  danger  lies,  ^  „p 

Lest,  having  misapplied  our  eyes, 

And  taken  trash  for  treasure, 
We  should  unwarily  conclude 
Friendship  a  false  ideal  good, 

A  mere  Utopian  pleasure. 
16* 


.u 


^86  FRIENDSHIP. 

An  acquisition  rather  rare 
Is  yet  no  subject  of  despair  ; 

Nor  is  it  wise  complaining, 
If  either  on  forbiddden  ground, 
Or  where  it  was  not  to  be  found. 

We  sought  without  attaining. 

No  friendship  will  abide  the  test, 
That  stands  on  sordid  interest, 

Or  mean  self-love  erected : 
Nor  such  as  may  awhile  subsist. 
Between  the  sot  and  sensualist, 

For  vicious  ends  connected. 

Who  seeks  a  friend  should  come  dispos'd 
T*  exhibit  m  full  bloom  disclos'd 

The  graces  and  the  beauties, 
That  form  the  character  he  seeks 
For  'tis  a  union  that  bespeaks 

Reciprocated  duties. 

Mutual  attention  is  implied, 
And  equal  truth  on  either  side, 

And  constantly  supported ; 
*Tis  senseless  arrogance  t'  accuse 
Another  of  sinister  views. 

Our  own  as  much  distorted. 

But  will  sincerity  suffice  ? 
It  is  indeed  above  all  price. 

And  must  be  made  the  basis ; 
But  ev'ry  virtue  of  the  soul 
Must  constitute  the  charming  whol% 

All  shining  in  their  places. 

A  fretful  temper  will  divide 

The  closest  knot  that  may  be  tied, 

By  ceaseless  sharp  corrosion ; 
A  temper  passionate  and  fierce 
May  suddenly  your  joys  disperse 

At  one  immense  explosion. 


FRIENDSHIP.  187 

In  vain  the  talkative  unite 
In  hopes  of  permanent  delight — 

The  secret  just  committed, 
Forgetting  its  important  weight, 
They  drop  through  mere  desire  to  prate. 

And  by  themselves  outwitted. 

How  bright  soe'er  the  prospect  seems, 
All  thoughts  of  friendship  are  but  dreamf 

If  envy  chance  to  creep  in  ; 
An  envious  man,  if  you  succeed. 
May  prove  a  dang'rous  foe  indeed, 

But  not  a  friend  worth  keeping. 

As  envy  pines  at  good  possess'd, 
So  jealousy  looks  forth  distress'd 

On  good,  that  seems  approaching ; 
And  if  success  his  steps  attend. 
Discerns  a  rival  in  a  friend, 

And  hates  him  for  encroaching. 

Hence  authors  of  illustrious  name 
Unless  belied  by  common  fame. 

Are  sadly  prone  to  quarrel, 
To  deem  the  wit  a  friend  displays 
A  tax  upon  their  own  just  praise. 

And  pluck  each  other's  laurel. 

A  man  renown'd  for  repartee. 
Will  seldom  scruple  to  make  free 

With  friendship's  finest  feeling  ; 
Will  thrust  a  dagger  at  your  breast, 
And  say  he  wounded  you  in  jest. 

By  way  of  balm  for  healing. 

Whoever  keeps  an  open  ear 
For  tattlers,  will  be  sure  to  hear 

The  trumpet  of  contention  ; 
Aspersion  is  the  babbler's  trade. 
To  listen  is  to  lend  him  aid. 

And  rush  into  dissension. 


188  FRIENDSHIP. 

A  friendship,  that  in  frequent  fits 
Of  controversial  rage  emits 

The  sparks  of  disputation, 
Like  hand  in  hand  insurance  plates. 
Most  unavoidably  creates 

The  thought  of  conflagration. 

Some  fickle  creatures  boast  a  soul 
True  as  a  needle  to  the  pole, 

Their  humour  yet  so  various, 
They  manifest  their  whole  life  through 
The  needle's  deviations  too, 

Their  love  is  so  precarious. 

The  great  and  small  but  rarely  meet 
On  terms  of  amity  complete, 

Plebeians  must  surrender 
And  yield  so  much  to  noble  folk, 
It  is  combining  fire  with  smoke, 
.  Obscurity  with  splendour. 

Some  are  so  placid  and  serene 
(As  Irish  bogs  are  always  green,) 

They  sleep  secure  from  waking : 
And  are  indeed  a  bog  that  bears 
Your  unparticipated  cares 

Unmov'd  and  without  quaking. 

Courtier  and  patriot  cannot  mix 
Their  het'rogeneous  politicks. 

Without  an  effervescence. 
Like  that  of  salts  with  lemon  juice, 
Which  does  not,  yet  like  that  produe» 

A  friendly  coalescence. 

Religion  should  extinguish  strife. 
And  make  a  calm  of  human  life  ; 

Bui  friends  that  chance  to  differ 
On  points  which  God  has  left  at  large, 
How  freely  will  they  meet  and  charge 

No  combatants  are  stiffer. 


FRIENDSHIP.  189 

To  prove  at  last  my  main  intent 
Needs  no  expense  of  argument, 

No  cutting  and  contriving— 
Seeking  a  real  friend  we  seem 
T*  adopt  the  chemist's  golden  dream, 

With  still  less  hope  of  thriving. 

Sometimes  the  fault  is  all  our  own, 
Some  blemish  in  due  time  made  kno\ni 

By  trespass  or  omission  ; 
Sometimes  occasion  brings  to  light 
Our  friend's  defect  long  hid  from  sight. 

And  even  from  suspicion^ 

Then  judge  yourself,  and  prove  your  man 
As  circumspectly  as  you  can, 

And,  having  made  election. 
Beware  no  negligence  of  yours. 
Such  as  a  friend  but  ill  endures. 

Enfeeble  his  affection. 
That  secrets  are  a  sacred  trust, 
That  friends  should  be  sincere  and  just. 

That  constancy  befits  them. 
Are  observations  on  the  case. 
That  savour  much  of  common-place, 

And  all  the  world  admits  them. 

But  'tis  not  timber,  lead,  and  stone, 
An  architect  requires  alone. 

To  finish  a  fine  building — 
The  palace  were  but  half  complete. 
If  he  could  possibly  forget 

The  carving  and  the  gilding. 
The  man  that  hails  you  Tom  or  Jack 
And  proves  by  thumps  upon  your  baclk 

How  he  esteems  your  merit. 
Is  such  a  friend,  that  one  had  need 
Be  very  much  his  friend  indeed, 

To  pardon  or  to  bear  it. 


190  FRIENDSHIP 

As  similarity  of  mind, 
Or  something  not  to  be  defined. 

First  fixes  our  attention  : 
So  manners  decent  and  polite, 
The  same  we  practis'd  at  first  sigh 

Must  save  it  from  declension. 

Some  act  upon  this  prudent  plan,  ,^ 

"  Say  little,  and  hear  all  you  can."  ; . 

Safe  policy,  but  hateful — 
So  barren  sands  imbibe  the  shoi?v'r, 
But  render  neither  fruit  nor  flowT 

Unpleasant  and  ungrateful. 

The  man  I  trust,  if  shy  to  me, 
Shall  find  me  as  reserv'd  as  he. 

No  subterfuge  or  pleading  '  ' 

Shall  win  my  confidence  again — 
I  will  by  no  means  entertain 

A  spy  on  my  proceeding. 

These  samples — for  alas  !  at  last  ■ 

These  are  but  samples,  and  a  taste  '^ 

Of  evils  yet  unmention'd — 

May  prove  the  task  a  task  indeed,  -  •  ^ 

In  which  'tis  much  if  we  succeed,  ■:  i' 

However  well  intention'd.  '. 

Pursue  the  search,  and  you  will  innd    ->:.ii  --iJ  :^'l 
Good  sense  and  knowledge  of  mankindtidoiij  nA 

To  be  at  least  expedient, 
And,  after  summing  all  the  rest,  i 

Religion  ruling  in  the  breast  -Sii  il 

A  principal  ingredient.  '^r 

The  noblest  Friendship  ever  shown 
The  Saviour's  history  makes  known, 

Though  some  have  turn'd  and  tum*d  H  ; 
And  whether  being  craz'd  or  blind. 
Or  seeing  with  a  biass'd  mind. 

Have  not,  it  seems,  discern'd  it 


THE  MORALIZER  CORRECTED.        191 

O  Friendship  !  if  my  soul  forego 
Thy  dear  dehghts  while  here  below 

To  mortify  and  grieve  me, 
May  I  myself  at  last  appear 
Unworthy,  base,  and  insincere, 

Or  may  my  friend  deceive  me ! 


THE  MORALIZER  CORRECTED 


A  HERMIT,  (or  if  'chance  you  hold 
That  title  now  too  trite  and  old,) 
A  man,  once  young,  who  liv'd  retir'd 
As  hermit  could  have  well  desir'd. 
His  hours  of  study  clos'd  at  last, 
And  finsh'd  his  concise  repast, 
Stoppled  his  cruise,  replac'd  his  book 
Within  his  customary  nook, 
And,  staff  in  hand,  set  forth  to  share 
The  sober  cordial  of  sweet  air, 
Like  Isaac,  with  a  mmd  applied 
To  serious  thought  at  ev'ning  tide. 
Autumnal  rains  had  made  it  chill. 
And  from  the  trees  that  fring'd  his  hill. 
Shades  slanting  at  the  close  of  day 
Chill'd  more  his  else  delightful  way  , 
Distant  a  little  mile  he  spied 
A  western  bank's  still  sunny  side. 
And  right  toward  the  favour'd  place 
Proceeding  with  his  nimblest  pace^^^.^^^  ^^.  .^^ 
In  hope  to  bask  a  little  yet, 
Just  reach'd  it  when  the  sun  was  set 


92        THE  MORALIZER  CORRECTED; 

Your  hermit,  young  and  jovial  sirs ! 
Learns  something  from  whate'er  occur»— 
And  hence,  he  said,  my  mind  computes 
The  real  worth  of  man's  pursuits 
His  object  chosen,  wealth,  or  famoi 
Or  other  sublunary  game, 
Imagination  to  his  view 
Presents  it  deck'd  with  ev*ry  hue 
That  can  seduce  him  not  to  spare 
His  pow'rs  of  best  exertion  there, 
But  youth,  health,  vigour,  to  expend 
On  so  desirable  an  end. 
Ere  long  approach  life's  ev'ning  shade% 
The  glow  that  fancy  gave  it  fades ; 
And,  earn'd  too  late,  it  wants  the  grace 
That  first  engag'd  him  in  the  chase. 

True,  answer'd  an  angelick  guide, 
Attendant  at  the  senior's  side — 
But  whether  all  the  time  it  cost, 
To  urge  the  fruitless  chase  be  lost, 
Must  be  decided  by  the  worth 
Of  that  which  call'd  his  ardour  forth. 
Trifles  pursu'd,  whate'er  th'  event. 
Must  cause  him  shame  or  discontent ; 
A  vicious  object  still  is  worse. 
Successful  there  he  wins  a  curse. 
But  he,  whom  e'en  in  life's  last  sta^ 
Endeavours  laudable  engage, 
Is  paid,  at  least  in  peace  of  mind. 
And  sense  of  having  well  design'd ; 
And  if,  ere  he  attain  his  end. 
His  sun  precipitate  descend, 
A  brighter  prize  than  that  he  meant 
Shall  recompense  his  mere  intent. 
No  virtuous  wish  can  bear  a  date 
Either  too  early  or  too  late 


CATHARINA. 

ADDRESSED  TO  MISS  STAPLETON, 
(now   MRS.  COURTNEY.) 


SHE  came — she  is  gone— we  have  met — 

And  meet  perhaps  never  again ; 
The  sun  of  that  moment  is  set, 

And  seems  to  have  risen  in  vain 
Catharma  has  fled  like  a  dream — 

(So  vanishes  pleasure,  alas  !) 
But  has  left  a  regret  and  esteem, 

That  will  not  so  suddenly  pass. 

The  last  ev'ning  ramble  we  made, 

Catharina,  Maria,  and  1, 
Our  progress  was  often  delay'd 

By  the  nightingale  warbling  nigh. 
We  paus'd  under  many  a  tree, 

And  much  she  was  charm'd  with  a  tout 
Less  sweet  to  Maria  and  me, 

Who  so  lately  had  witness'd  her  own. 

My  numbers  that  day  she  had  sung. 

And  gave  them  a  grace  so  divine, 
As  only  her  musical  tongue 

Could  infuse  into  numbers  of  mine. 
The  longer  I  heard,  I  esteemed 

The  work  of  my  fancy  the  more, 
And  e'en  to  myself  never  seem'd 

So  tuneful  a  poet  before. 
Vol.  it.  17 


194  CATHARINA 

Though  the  pleasures  of  London  exceed 

In  number  the  days  of  the  year, 
Catharina,  did  nothing  impede^ 

Would  feel  herself  happier  here  ; 
For  the  close-woven  arches  of  limes 

On  the  banks  of  our  river,  I  know. 
Are  sweeter  to  her  many  times 

Than  aught  that  the  city  can  show. 

So  it  is,  when  the  mind  is  endu'd 

With  a  well-judging  taste  from  above, 
Then  whether  embellish'd  or  rude 

'Tis  nature  alone  that  we  love  j 
The  achievements  of  art  may  amuse, 

May  even  our  wonder  excite. 
But  groves,  hills,  and  vallies,  diffuse 

A  lasting,  a  sacred  delight. 

Since,  then,  in  the  rural  recess 

Catharina  alone  can  rejoice, 
May  it  still  be  her  lot  to  possess 

The  scene  of  her  sensible  choice ! 
To  inhabit  a  mansion  remote 

From  the  clatter  of  street-pacing  steeds, 
And  by  Philomel's  annual  note 

To  measure  the  life  that  she  leads. 

With  her  book,  and  her  voice,  and  her  lyre 

To  wing  all  her  moments  at  home  ; 
And  with  scenes  that  new  rapture  inspire, 

As  oft  as  it  suits  her  to  roam ; 
She  will  have  just  the  life  she  prefers, 

With  little  to  hope  or  to  fear. 
And  ours  would  be  pleasant  as  hers, 

Might  we  view  her  enjoying  it  hero, 


THE  FAITHFUL  BIRD. 


THE  green  house  is  my  summer  seat ; 
My  shrubs  displac'd  from  that  retreat 

Enjoy'd  the  open  air ; 
Two  Goldfinches,  whose  sprightly  Bongj 
Had  been  their  mutual  solace  long, 

Liv'd  happy  pris'ners  there. 

They  sang  as  blithe  as  finches  sing, 
That  flutter  loose  on  golden  wing, 

And  frolick  where  they  list ; 
Strangers  to  liberty,  'tis  true, 
But  that  delight  they  never  knew 

And  therefore  never  miss'd. 

But  nature  works  in  every  breast, 
With  force  not  easily  suppress'd ; 

And  Dick  felt  some  desires. 
That  after  many  an  effort  vain, 
Instructed  him  at  length  to  gain 

A  pass  between  his  wires. 
The  open  windows  seem'd  t'  invite 
The  freeman  to  a  farewell  flight  : 

But  Tom  was  still  confin'd  : 
And  Dick,  although  his  way  was  clear 
Was  much  too  gen'rous  and  sincere. 

To  leave  his  friend  behind. 

So  settling  on  his  cage,  by  play, 
And  chirp,  and  kiss  he  seem'd  to  say, 

You  must  not  live  alone — 
Nor  would  lie  quit  that  chosen  stand, 
Till  I,  with  slow  and  cautious  hand, 

Return'd  him  to  his  own 


196  THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM. 

O  ye  who  never  taste  the  joys 
Of  Friendship,  satisfied  with  noise, 

Fandango,  ball,  and  rout  1 
Blush,  when  I  tell  you  how  a  bird, 
A  prison  with  a  friend  preferred 

To  liberty  without. 


THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM. 


THERE  is  a  field,  through  which  I  often  pass 
Thick  overspread  with  moss  and  silky  grass, 
Adjoining  close  to  Kilwick*s  echoing  wood, 
Where  oft  the  bitch  fox  hides  her  hapless  brood, 
Reserv'd  to  solace  many  a  neighboring  squire, 
That  he  may  follow  them  through  brake  and  brier, 
Contusion,  hazarding  of  neck,  or  spine, 
Which  rural  gentlemen  call  sport  divine. 
A  narrow  brook,  by  rushy  banks  conceal'd 
Runs  in  a  bottom,  and  divides  the  field ; 
Oaks  intersperse  it,  that  had  once  a  head, 
But  now  wear  crests  of  oven-wood  instead ; 
And  where  the  land  slopes  to  its  wat'ry  bourn, 
Wide  yawns  a  gulf  beside  a  ragged  thorn ; 
Bricks  line  the  sides,  but  shiver'd  long  ago. 
And  horrid  brambles  intertwine  below  ; 
A  hollow  scoop'd,  I  judge,  in  ancient  time, 
For  baking  earth,  or  burning  rock  to  lime. 

Not  yet  the  hawthorn  bore  her  berries  red. 
With  which  the  fieldfare,  wintry  guest,  is  fed  ; 
Nor  autumn  yet  had  brush'd  from  ev'ry  spray, 
With  her  chill  hand  the  mellow  leaves  away  ; 


THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM.  197 

liut  corn  was  hous'd,  and  beans  were  in  the  stack ; 
Now  therefore  issu'd  forth  the  spotted  pack, 
With  tails  high  mounted,  ears  hung  low,  and  throatfi, 
With  a  whole  gamut  fiU'd  of  heav'nly  notes, 
For  which,  alas !  my  destiny  severe, 
Though  ears  she  gave  me  two,  gave  me  no  ear. 

The  Sim,  accomplishing  his  early  march. 
His  lamp  now  planted  on  Heav'n's  topmost  arch, 
When,  exercise  and  air  my  only  aim. 
And  heedless  whither,  to  that  field  I  came. 
Ere  yet  with  ruthless  joy  the  happy  hound 
Told  hill  and  dale  that  Reynard's  track  was  found, 
Or  with  the  high-rais'd  horn's  melodious  clang 
All  Kilwick*  and  all  Dinglederry*  rang. 

Sheep  grazed  the  field  ;  some  with  soft  bosom  press'd 
The  herb  as  soft,  while  nibbling  stray'd  the  rest ; 
Nor  noise  was  heard  but  of  the  hasty  brook. 
Struggling,  detain'd  in  many  a  petty  nook. 
All  seem'd  so  peaceful,  that,  from  them  conveyed. 
To  me  their  peace  by  kind  contagion  spread. 

But  when  the  huntsman  with  distended  cheek, 
*Gan  make  his  instrument  of  musick  speak, 
And  from  withjii  the  wood  that  crash  was  heard, 
Though  not  a  hound  from  whom  it  burst  appear'd. 
The  sheep  recumbent,  and  the  sheep  that  graz'd. 
All  huddling  into  phalanx,  stood  and  gaz'd. 
Admiring,  terrified,  the  novel  strain, 
Then  cours'd  the  field  around,  and  cours'd  it  round 

again  ; 
But,  recollecting  with  a  sudden  thought, 
That  flight  in  circles  urg'd  advanc'd  them  nought. 
They  gather'd  close  around  the  old  pit's  brink. 
And  thought  again — ^but  knew  not  what  to  think. 

•  Two  woods  belonging  to  John  Throckmorton,  Esq. 
17* 


198  THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM. 

The  man  to  solitude  accustom 'd  long 
Perceives  in  every  thing  that  lives  a  tongue , 
Not  animals  alone,  but  shrubs  and  trees, 
Have  speech  for  him,  and  understood  with  ease ; 
After  long  drought  when  rains  abundant  fall, 
He  hears  the  herbs  and  flow'rs  rejoicing  all ; 
Knows  what  the  freshness  of  their  hue  implies, 
How  glad  they  catch  the  largess  of  the  skies  ; 
But,  with  precision  nicei  still,  the  mind 
He  scans  of  ev'ry  locomotive  kind  ; 
Birds  of  all  feather,  beasts  of  ev'ry  name, 
That  serve  mankind,  or  shun  them,  wild  or  tame ; 
The  looks  and  gestures  of  their  griefs  and  fears 
Have  all  articulation  in  his  ears  ; 
He  spells  them  true  by  intuition's  light. 
And  needs  no  glossary  to  set  him  right. 

This  truth  premis'd  was  needful  as  a  text, 
To  win  due  credence  to  what  follows  next. 

Awhile  they  mus'd  ;  surveying  ev'ry  face, 
Thou  hadst  suppos'd  them  of  superiour  race  ; 
Their  periwigs  of  wool,  and  fears  combin'd 
Stamp 'd  on  each  countenance  such  marks  of  mind, 
That  sage  they  seem'd  as  lawyers  o'er  a  doubt, 
Which,  puzzling  long,  at  last  they  puzzle  out ; 
Or  academick  tutors,  teaching  youths. 
Sure  ne'er  to  want  them,  mathematick  truths ; 
When  thus  a  mutton,  statelier  than  the  rest, 
A  ram,  the  ewes  and  wethers  sad,  address'd. 

Friends  !  we  have  liv'd  too  long.    I  never  heard 
Sounds  such  as  these,  so  worthy  to  be  fear'd. 
Could  1  believe,  that  winds  for  ages  pent 
In  Earth's  dark  womb  have  found  at  last  a  vent, 
And  from  their  prison-house  below  arise. 
With  all  these  hideous  bowlings  to  the  skies, 
I  could  be  much  compos'd,  nor  should  appear, 
For  such  a  cause,  to  feel  the  slightest  fear- 


THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM.  199 

yourselves  have  seen,  what  time  the  thunders  roil*d 
All  night,  me  resting  quiet  in  the  fold, 
Or  heard  we  that  tremendous  bray  alone, 
J  could  expound  the  melancholy  tone ; 
Should  deem  it  by  our  old  companion  made, 
The  ass  ;  for  he,  we  know,  has  lately  stray'd, 
And  being  lost,  perhaps,  and  wand'ring  wide, 
Might  be  suppos'd  to  clamour  for  a  guide. 
But  ah !  those  dreadful  yells  what  soul  can  hear 
That  owns  a  carcass  and  not  quake  for  fear  ? 
Demons  produce  them  doubtless,  brazen-claw'd, 
And  fang'd  with  brass,  the  daemons  are  abroad , 
I  hold  it  therefore  wisest  and  most  fit, 
That,  life  to  save,  wo  leap  into  the  pit. 

Him  answer'd  then  his  loving  mate  and  true, 
But  more  discreet  than  he,  a  Cambrian  ewe. 

How  !  leap  into  the  pit  our  life  to  save  ? 
To  save  our  life  leap  all  into  the  grave  ? 
For  can  we  find  it  less  ?  Contemplate  first 
The  depth  how  awful  !  falling  there  we  burst ; 
Or  should  the  brambles,  interpos'd,  our  fall 
In  part  abate,  that  happiness  were  small : 
For  with  a  race  like  theirs  no  chance  I  see 
Of  peace  or  ease  to  creatures  clad  as  we. 
Meantime,  noise  kills  not.     Be  it  Dapple 's  bray, 
Or  be  it  not,  or  be  it  whoso  it  may, 
And  rush  those  other  sounds,  that  seem  by  tongues 
Of  demons  utter'd  from  whatever  lungs. 
Sounds  are  but  sounds,  and  till  the  cause  appear, 
We  have  at  least  commodious  standing  here. 
Come  fiend,  come  fury,  giant,  monster,  blast 
From  Earth  or  Hell,  we  can  but  plunge  at  last. 

While  thus  she  spake,  I  fainter  heard  the  peals, 
For  Reynard,  close  attended  at  his  heels 
By  panting  dog,  tir'd  man,  and  spatter'd  horse. 
Through  mere   good  fortune,  took  a  difTrent  course 


200  BOADICEA. 

The  flock  grew  calm  again,  and  I  tne  road 
Foll'wing,  that  led  me  to  my  own  abode. 
Much  wonder'd  that  the  silly  sheep  had  found 
Such  cause  of  terrour  in  an  empty  sound, 
So  sweet  to  huntsman,  gentleman,  and  hound. 

MORAL. 
Beware  of  desp'rate  steps.    The  darkest  day, 
^Live  till  to-morrow,  will  have  pass'd  away. 


BOADICEA 


1. 
WHEN  the  British  warriour  queen. 

Bleeding  from  the  Roman  rods, 
Sought  with  an  indignant  mien, 

Counsel  of  her  country's  gods. 

II. 

Sage  beneath  the  spreading  oak 
Sat  the  Druid,  hoary  chief; 

Ev'ry  burning  word  he  spoke 
Full  of  rage,  and  full  of  grief 

III. 

Princess  !  if  our  aged  eyes 

Weep  upon  thy  matchless  wrongs 
*Tis  because  resentment  ties 

All  the  terrours  of  our  tongues. 


.:r=:^ 


BOADICEA.                           201 

Rome  siial  perish — write  that  woid 

In  the  blood  that  she  hast  spill'd ;                                      ^ 
Perish,  hopeless  and  abhorr'd, 

Deep  in  ruin  as  in  guilt 

V. 

Rome,  for  empire  far  renownM, 
Tramples  on  a  thousand  states ; 

Soon  her  pride  shall  kiss  the  ground- 
Hark  !  the  Gaul  is  at  her  gates ! 

VI. 

Other  Romans  shall  arise. 
Heedless  of  a  soldier's  name  ; 

Sounds,  not  arms,  shall  win  the  prize 
Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 

VIL 

Then  the  progeny  that  springs 
From  the  forests  of  our  land, 

Arm'd  with  thunder,  clad  with  wings 
Shall  a  wider  world  command. 

vni. 

Regions  Caesar  never  knew 
Thy  posterity  shall  sway ; 

Where  his  eagles  never  flew, 
None  invincible  as  they. 

IX. 

Such  the  bard's  prophetick  words, 
Pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 

Bending  as  he  swept  the  chords 
Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre 

X. 

She,  with  all  a  monarch's  pride. 

Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow ; 
Rush'd  to  battle,  fought,  and  died  ; 

Dying  hurl'd  them  at  the  foe. 

1 

202  HEROISM 

XI. 
Ruffians,  pitiless  as  proud, 

Heav'n  awards  the  vengeance  duo  • 
Empire  is  on  us  bestow'd, 
Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  you. 


HEROISM. 

THERE  was  a  time  when  Etna's  sile:at  fire 
Slept  unperceiv'd,  the  mountain  yet  entire  ; 
When,  conscious  of  no  danger  from  below, 
She  tower'd  a  cloudcapt  pyramid  of  snow. 
No  thunders  shook  with  deep  intestine  sound 
The  blooming  groves  that  girdled  her  around. 
Her  unctuous  olives,  and  her  purple  vines, 
(Unfclt  the  fury  of  those  bursting  mines,) 
The  peasant's  hopes,  and  not  in  vain,  assur'd, 
In  peace  upon  her  sloping  sides  matur'd. 
When  on  a  day,  like  that  of  the  last  doom, 
A  conflagration  lab'ring  in  her  womb, 
She  teem'd  and  heav'd  with  an  infernal  birth, 
That  shook  the  circling  seas  and  solid  earth. 
Dark  and  voluminous  the  vapours  rise, 
And  hang  their  horrours  in  the  neighb'ring  skies, 
While  through  the  stygian  veil  that  blots  the  day, 
In  dazzling  streaks  the  vivid  lightnings  play. 
But  O  !  what  muse,  and  in  what  pow'rs  of  song, 
Can  trace  the  torrent  as  it  burns  along  ? 
Havock  and  devastatio\t  N  the  van. 
It  marches  o'er  the  prostrate  works  of  man, 
Vines,  olives,  herbage,  forests,  disappear, 
And  all  the  cUarms  of  a  Siciliatt  T,'<».ar 


HEROISM. 
Revolving  seasons  fruitless  as  they  pass. 
Bee  it  an  uninform'd  and  idle  mass ; 
Without  a  soil  t'  invite  the  tiller's  care, 
Or  blade  that  might  redeem  it  from  despair, 
yet  time,  at  length,  (what  will  not  time  achieve  ?) 
Clothes  it  with  earth,  and  bids  the  produce  live. 
Once  more  the  spiry  myrtle  crowns  the  glade, 
And  ruminating  flocks  enjoy  the  shade. 
O  bliss  precarious  and  unsafe  retreats, 
O  charming  Paradise  of  short-liv'd  sweets ! 
The  self-same  gale  that  wafts  the  fragrance  round, 
Brings  to  the  distant  ear  a  sullen  sound : 
Again  the  mountain  feels  the  imprisoned  foe. 
Again  pours  ruin  on  the  vale  below. 
Ten  thousand  swains  the  wasted  scene  deplore, 
That  only  future  ages  can  restore. 

Ye  monarchs,  whom  the  lure  of  honour  draws, 
Who  write  in  blood  the  merits  of  your  cause. 
Who  strike  the  blow,  then  plead  your  own  defence, 
Glory  your  aim,  but  justice  your  pretence  ; 
Behold  in  Etna's  emblematick  fires 
The  mischiefs  your  ambitious  pride  inspires. 

Fast  by  the  stream  that  bounds  your  just  domain. 
And  tells  you  where  ye  have  a  right  to  reign, 
A  nation  dwells,  not  envious  of  your  throne. 
Studious  of  peace,  their  neighbours'  and  their  owii« 
Ill-fated  race  !  how  deeply  must  they  rue 
Their  only  crime,  vicinity  to  you  ! 
The  trumpet  sounds,  your  legions  swarm  abroad. 
Through  the  ripe  harvest  lies  their  destin'd  road  . 
At  ev*ry  step  beneath  their  feet  they  tread 
The  life  of  multitudes,  a  nation's  bread  ! 
Earth  seems  a  garden  in  its  loveliest  dress 
Before  them,  and  behind  a  wilderness. 
Famine,  and  Pestilence,  her  first-born  son, 
Attend  to  finish  what  the  sword  begun  • 


204  HEROISM. 

And  echoing  praises,  such  as  fiends  might  eanii 
And  Folly  pays,  resound  at  your  return. 
A  calm  succeeds — but  Plenty,  with  her  train 
Of  heart-felt  joys,  succeeds  not  soon  again, 
And  years  of  pining  indigence  must  show 
What  scourges  are  the  gods  that  rule  below* 
Yet  man,  laborious  man,  by  slow  degrees, 
(Such  is  his  thirst  of  opulence  and  ease,) 
Plies  all  the  sinews  of  industrious  toil, 
Gleans  up  the  refuse  of  the  gen*ral  spoil, 
Rebuilds  the  tow'rs,  that  smok'd  upon  the  plain. 
And  the  sun  gilds  the  shining  spires  agdb. 

Increasing  commerce  and  reviving  art 
Renew  the  quarrel  on  the  conqu*ror*s  part ; 
And  the  sad  lesson  must  be  leam'd  once  more^ 
That  wealth  v/ithin  is  ruin  at  the  door. 
What  are  ye,  monarchs,  laurell'd  heroes,  say, 
But  -Sitnas  of  the  suiTring  world  ye  sway  ? 
Sweet  Nature,  stripp'd  of  her  embroider'd  robe, 
Deplores  the  wasted  regions  of  her  globe  ; 
And  stands  a  witness  at  Truth's  awful  bar, 
To  prove  you  there  destroyers  as  ye  are. 

O  place  me  in  some  Heav'n-protccted  isle. 
Where  Peace,  and  Equity,  and  Freedom  smile 
Where  no  volcano  pours  his  fiery  flood. 
No  crested  warriour  dips  his  plume  in  blood  ; 
Where  Pow*r  secures  what  Industry  has  won  ; 
Where  to  succeed  is  not  to  be  undone ; 
A  land,  that  distant  tywwUfl  hate  in  vain, 
In  Britain's  isle,  beneath  a  George's  reign' 


(205) 


1 

i. 
OV  A  MISCHIBTOUS   BULL,  WHICH  THE   OWNER  OF  HIM 

BOLD  AT  THE  AUTHOR'S  INSTANCE. 


GO — ^thou  art  all  unfit  to  shaie 

The  pleasures  of  this  place  ) 

With  such  as  its  old  tenants  arOi  - 

Creatures  of  gentler  race. 

The  squirrel  here  his  hoard  provide* 

Aware  of  wintry  storms, 
And  wood-peckers  explore  the  sides 

Of  rugged  oaks  for  worms. 

The  sheep  here  smooths  the  knotted  thorn 

With  frictions  of  her  fleece ; 
And  here  I  wander  eve  and  mom. 

Like  her,  a  friend  to  peace. 

Ah ! — I  could  pity  thee  exiPd 

From  this  secure  retreat — 
I  would  not  lose  it  to  be  styl'd 

The  happiest  of  the  great. 

But  thou  canst  taste  no  calm  delight ; 

Thy  pleasure  is  to  show 
Thy  magnanimity  in  fight, 

Thy  prowess*— therefore  go- 

.  care  not  whether  east  or  north, 

So  I  no  more  may  find  thee  ; 
The  angry  muse  thus  sings  thee  forth. 

And  claps  the  gate  behind  thee. 
Vol.  II.  18 


(206) 


ANNUS  MEMORABILIS,  1789. 

Written  in  commemoration  of  his  majesty*! 
happy  recovery. 


1  RANSACK'D  for  a  theme  of  song, 
Much  ancient  chronicle,  and  long  ; 
I  read  of  bright  embattled  fields, 
Of  trophied  helmets,  spears,  and  shields, 
Of  chiefs,  whose  single  arm  could  boast 
Prowess  to  dissipate  a  host ; 
Through  tomes  of  fable  and  of  dream 
I  sought  an  eligible  theme, 
But  none  I  found,  or  found  them  shar'd 
Already  by  some  happier  bard. 

To  modern  times,  with  Truth  to  guide 
My  busy  search,  I  next  applied  ; 
Here  cities  won,  and  fleets  dispers*d, 
Urg'd  loud  a  claim  to  be  rehears'd, 
Deeds  of  unperishing  renown. 
Our  fathers'  triumphs  and  our  own. 

Thus,  as  the  bee,  from  bank  to  bow'r, 
Assiduous  sips  at  ev'ry  flow'r. 
But  rests  on  none,  till  that  be  found. 
Where  most  nectareous  sweets  abound"-" 
So  I,  from  theme  to  theme  display 'd 
In  many  a  page  historick  stray'd, 
Siege  after  siege,  fight  after  fight 
Contemplating  with  small  delight, 
(For  feats  of  sanguinary  huo 
Not  always  glitter  in  my  view,) 


ANNUS  MEMORABILIS.  207 

Till,  seltlif  g  on  the  current  year, 
I  found  the  far-sought  treasure  near ; 
A  theme  for  poetry  divine, 
A  theme  t'  ennoble  even  mine, 
In  memorable  eighty-nine. 

The  spring  of  eighty-nine  shall  be 
An  era  cherish'd  long  by  me. 
Which  joyful  I  will  oft  record. 
And  thankful  at  my  frugal  board ; 
For  then  the  clouds  of  eighty-eight 
That  threaten'd  England's  trembling  state 
With  loss  of  wliat  she  least  could  spare. 
Her  sovereign's  tutelary  care, 
One  breath  of  Heaven,  that  cried — Restored 
Chas'd,  never  to  assemble  more  ; 
And  far  the  richest  crown  on  earth, 
If  valued  by  its  wearer's  worth, 
The  symbol  of  a  righteous  reign 
Sat  fast  on  George's  brows  again. 

Then  peace  and  joy  again  possesa*d 
Our  Queen's  long  agitated  breast ; 
Such  joy  and  peace  as  can  bo  known 
By  sufTrers  like  herself  alone,  f 

Who,  losing,  or  supposing  lost. 
The  good  on  earth  they  valu'd  most, 
For  that  dear  sorrows'  sake  forego 
All  hope  of  happiness  below. 
Then  suddenly  regain  the  prize, 
And  flash  thanksgivings  to  the  skioB! 

O  Queen  of  Albion,  queen  of  isles ' 
Since  all  thy  tears  were  chang'd  to  smilei^ 
The  eyes  that  never  saw  thee  shine 
With  joy  not  unallied  to  thine, 
Transports  not  cha  jeablo  with  art 
Illume  the  land's  remotest  part, 


.^^ 


208  HYMN. 

And  strangers  to  the  air  of  courts, 
Both  in  tlieir  toils  and  at  their  sportsu 
The  happiness  of  answer'd  pray'rs, 
That  gilds  thy  features,  show  in  theirs. 

If  they  who  on  thy  state  attend. 
Awe-struck,  before  thy  presence  bend, 
*Tis  but  the  natural  effect 
Of  grandeur  that  ensures  respect  5 
But  she  is  something  more  than  queeny 
Who  is  belov'd  where  never  seen. 


HYMN, 

For  the  use  of  the  Sunday  School  at  Olnsjf^ 
HEAR,  Lord,  the  song  of  praise  and  pray*r 

In  heav'n  thy  dwelling  place. 
From  infants  made  the  publick  care. 

And  taught  to  seek  thy  face. 

TJianks  for  thy  word  and  for  thy  day, 

And  grant  us,  we  implore. 
Never  to  waste,  in  sinful  play 

Thy  holy  sabbaths  more. 

Thanks  that  we  hear— but  O  impart 

To  each  desires  sincere. 
That  we  may  listen  with  our  heart. 

And  learn  as  well  as  hear. 

For  if  vain  thoughts  the  minds  engage 

Of  older  far  than  we, 
What  hope  that  at  our  heedless  age, 

Our  minds  should  e'er  be  free  ? 


STANZAS.  309 

Much  hope,  if  thou  our  spirits  take 

Under  thy  gracious  sway, 
Who  canst  the  wisest  wiser  make, 

And  babes  as  wise  as  they. 

Wisdom  and  bliss  thy  word  bestows, 

A  sun  that  ne*er  declines, 
And  be  thy  mercies  shower'd  on  those, 

Who  plac'd  us  where  it  shines. 


STANZAS 


iuhjoined  to  the  Yearly  Bill  of  Mortality  of  the  Parish 
of  AU'SaintSj  J{orthamptony*  Anno  Domini  1787. 


Pallida  Mors,  mquo  pulsat  pede  pauperum  tdbernas 

Regumque  turres.  Horace. 

Pale  Death  with  equal  foot  strikes  wide  the  door 
Of  royal  halls,  and  hovels  of  the  poor. 


WHILE  thirteen  moons  saw  smoothly  run 

The  Nen'fl  barge-laden  wave, 
All  these,  life's  rambling  journey  done. 

Have  found  their  home,  the  grave. 

Was  man,  (frail  always)  made  more  frail 

Than  in  foregoing  years  ? 
Did  famine  or  did  plague  prevail, 

That  so  much  death  appears  .'*• 

'  Composed  for  John  Cox,  parish  clerk  of  Northan^pton. 

18* 


210  BILL  OF  MORTALITY. 

No  ;  tnese  were  vig'rous  as  their  sires, 

Nor  plague  nor  famine  came  ; 
This  aiinnal  tribute  Death  requires, 

And  never  waves  his  claim. 

Like  crowded  forest-trees  we  stand, 

And  some  are  mark'd  to  fall ; 
The  axe  will  smite  at  God's  command. 
And  soon  shall  smite  us  all. 

Green  as  the  bay-tree,  ever  green, 

With  its  new  foliage  on, 
The  gay,  the  thoughtless,  have  I  seen, 

I  pass'd — and  they  were  gone. 

Read,  ye  that  run,  the  awful  truth, 
With  which  I  charge  my  page  ; 

A  worm  is  in  the  bud  of  youth, 
And  at  the  root  of  age. 

No  present  health  can  health  ensure 

For  yet  an  hour  to  come  ; 
No  med'cine,  though  it  oft  can  cure, 

Can  always  balk  the  tomb. 

And  O  1  that  humble  as  my  lot. 

And  scorn'd  as  is  my  strain. 
These  truths,  though  known,  too  much  forgot| 

I  may  not  teach  in  vain. 

So  prays  your  clerk  with  all  his  heart, 

And  ere  he  quits  the  pen, 
Begs  you  for  once  to  take  his  patt. 

And  answer  all — ^Amen ! 


(211) 
ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR  THE   YEAR   1788 


^^od  adestf  memento 
Companere  aquus.     Catera  flummis  ;^^ 

Riiu  f tranter,  Horao4I 

Improve  the  present  hour,  for  all  beside 
Is  a  mere  feather  on  a  torrent's  tide. 


COULD  I,  from  Heav'n  inspired,  as  sure  presage 
To  whom  the  rising  year  shall  prove  his  last. 

As  I  can  number  in  my  punctual  page. 
And  item  down  the  victims  of  the  past ; 

How  each  would  trembling  wait  the  mournful  sheet 
On  which  the  press  might  stamp  him  next  to  die, 

And  reading  here  his  sentence,  how  replete 
With  anxious  meaning,  heav'nward  turn  his  eye  I 

Time  then  would  seem  more  precious  than  the  joys 
In  which  he  sports  away  the  treasure  now ; 

And  pray'r  more  seasonable  than  the  noise 
Of  drunkards,  or  the  musick-drawing  bow. 

Then  doubtless  many  a  trifler,  on  the  brink         « 
Of  this  world's  hazardous  and  headlong  shore, 

Forc'd  to  a  pause,  would  feel  it  good  to  think, 
Told  that  his^etting  sun  must  rise  no  more. 


212  BILL  OF  MORTALITY. 

Ah  self-deceiv'd !  Could  I  prophetick  say 

Who  next  is  fated,  and  who  next  to  fall, 
The  rest  might  then  seem  privileged  to  play ; 

But  naming  none,  the  voice  now  speaks  to  ALL. 

Observe  the  dappled  foresters,  how  light 
They  bound  and  airy  o'er  the  sunny  glade — 

One  falls — the  rest,  wide  scatterM  with  affright, 
Vanish  at  once  into  the  darkest  shade. 

Had  we  their  wisdom,  should  we,  often  warn'dy 
Still  need  repeated  warnings,  and  at  last, 

A  thousand  awful  admonitions  scorn'd, 
Die  self-accus'd  of  life  run  all  to  waste  ? 

Sad  waste  !  for  which  no  after-thrift  atones, 
The  grave  admits  no  cure  for  guilt  or  sin ; 

Dew-drops  may  deck  the  turf  that  hides  the  bones^ 
But  tears  of  godly  grief  ne'er  flow  within. 

Learn  then  ye  living  !  by  the  mouths  be  taught 
Of  all  these  sepulchres,  instructers  true, 

That,  soon  or  late,  death  also  is  your  lot, 
And  the  next  opening  grave  may  yawn  for  yoa 


(213) 
ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR  THE    YEAR    1789. 


*,JPlaeidaque  iht  demum  morte  quievit.         Vibo* 
There  calm  at  length  he  breath 'd  his  soul  away. 


"  O  MOST  delightful  hour  by  man 

ExperiendW  here  below, 
The  hour  that  terminates  his  span. 

His  folly,  and  his  wo  I 

Worlds  should  not  bribe  me  back  to  tread 

Again  life's  dreary  waste, 
To  see  again  my  day  o'erspread 

With  all  the  gloomy  past. 

My  home  henceforth  is  in  the  skies. 

Earth,  seas,  and  sun,  adieu  ! 
All  Heav'n  unfolded  to  my  eyes, 

I  have  no  sight  for  you." 

So  spake  Aspasio,  firm  possessed 

Of  faith's  supporting  rod, 
Then  breath'd  his  soul  into  its  rest, 

The  bosom  of  his  God. 

He  was  a  man  among  the  few 

Sincere  on  virtue's  side  ; 
And  all  his  strength  from  Scripture  di^ew. 

To  hourly  use  applied. 


214  BILL  OF  MORTALITY. 

That  rule  he  priz'd,  by  that  he  fear*d. 

He  hated,  hop'd,  and  lov'd  ; 
Nor  ever  frown'd,  or  sad  appear'd 

But  when  his  heart  had  rov'd. 

For  he  was  frail  as  thou  or  I, 

And  evil  felt  within  ,: 
But  when  he  felt  it  heav'd  a  sigfa, 

And  loath'd  the  thought  of  sin. 

Such  liv'd  Aspasio  ;  and  at  last 
Caird  up  from  Earth  to  Heav*n, 

The  gulf  of  death  triumphant  passed, 
By  gales  of  blessing  driv'n. 

His  joys  be  mine,  each  Reader  cries, 
When  my  last  hour  arrives  :    - 

They  shall  bo  yours,  my  verse  replies^ 
Such  only  be  your  lives. 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR  THE  YEAR  1790. 


JV*«  tommonentem  recta  speme.  Buchanan 

Despise  not  my  |rood  counsel. 


HE  who  sits  trom  day  to  day, 
Where  the  prison'd  lark  is  hung, 

Heedless  of  his  loudest  lay, 
Hardly  knows  that  ho  has  sung. 


.  BILL  OF  MORTALITY.  215 

Where  the  watchman  in  his  round 

Nightly  lifts  his  voice  on  high, 
None,  accustom'd  to  the  sound, 

Wakes  the  sooner  for  his  cry. 

So  your  verseman  I  and  clerk, 

Yearly  in  my  song  proclaim 
Death  at  hand — ^yourselves  his  mark- 

And  the  foes  unerring  aim. 

Duly  at  my  time  I  come, 

Publishing,  to  all  aloud — 
Soon  the  grave  must  be  your  home, 

And  your  only  suit,  a  shroud. 

But  the  monitory  strain, 

Oft  repeated  in  your  ears. 
Seems  to  sound  too  much  in  vain, 

Wins  no  notice,  wakes  no  fears. 

Can  a  truth,  by  all  confess'd 

Of  such  magnitude  and  weight 
Grow,  by  being  oft  impress'd, 

Trivial  as  a  parrot's  prate  ? 

Pleamire's  call  attention  wins,  i 

Hear  it  often  as  we  may ; 
New  as  ever  seem  our  sins, 

Though  committed  every  day. 

Death  and  Judgment,  Heaven  and  HeU«-> 

These  alone,  so  often  heard. 
No  more  move  us  than  the  bell, 

When  some  stranger  is  interred. 

O  then,  ere  the  turf  or  tomb 

Cover  us  from  every  eye. 
Spirit  of  instruction  come. 

Make  us  learn,  that  we  must  die. 


(816 1 
ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR  THE  YEAR  1792. 


FeUXf  qui  potuit  rerum  cognoscere  causas^ 
Atque  metus  omnes  et  inexorahUe  fatum 
SubjecU  pedibuSf  strepitumque  ^cherontis  avari  ! 

Virg. 
Happy  the  mortal,  who  has  trac'd  effects 
To  their  first  cause,  cast  fear  beneath  his  feet, 
And  death,  and  roaring  Hell's  voracious  fires  * 


THANKLESS  for  favours  from  on  high 

Man  thinks  he  fades  too  soon  ; 
Though  'tis  his  privilege  to  die, 

Would  he  improve  the  boon.. 

But  he,  not  wise  enough  to  scan 

His  best  concerns  aright. 
Would  gladly  stretch  life's  little  span 

To  ages,  if  he  might. 

To  ages  in  a  world  of  pain, 

To  ages,  where  he  goes 
Gall'd  by  aflliction's  heavy  chain, 

And  hopeless  of  repose. 

Strange  fondness  of  the  human  heart, 

Enamour'd  of  its  harm  ! 
Strange  world,  that  costs  it  so  much  smart, 

And  still  has  pow'r  to  charm. 


BILL  OF  MORTALITY.  811 

Whence  has  the  world  her  magick  pow'r  i 

Why  deem  we  death  a  foe  ? 
Recoil  from  weary  life's  best  hour. 

And  covet  long^  wo  f  r    /i^j 

The  cause  is  Conscience — Conscience  oft 

Her  tale  of  guilt  renews ; 
Her  voice  is  terrible,  though  soft, 

And  dread  of  death  ensues. 

Then,  anxious  to  be  longer  spar'd, 

Man  mourns  his  fleeting  breath : 
All  evils  then  seem  light,  compared  irtidi 

With  the  approach  of  Death. 

'Tis  Judgment  shakes  him,  there's  !&»  ^a^ 

That  prompts  the  wish  to  stay : 
He  has  incurr'd  a  long  arrear, 

And  must  despair  to  pay. 

Pay /--follow  Christ,  and  all  is  paid; 7^';  ^^^^^ 
His  death  your  peace  ensures ;       ^'^rn  oT 

Think  on  the  grave  where  he  was  laid,     ^^^ 
And  calm  descend  to  your$. 
Vol.  II.  '19     ^-    '  ''  nMtm  .o^M  ij.a 

;vbbi^w 

^'^aisii  H  X^fs^Ul  uI 

,€^mim  -  rioni  m  ©lif  nuD 

ffiooiiW 

'til  BBolhflo  iiA 


Ui:  .Vii.u- :C218) 

ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR  THE  TEAR  1793. 

De  sacris  autem  hoc  sic  una  sententiay  ut  conserventur, 

Cic.  de  Leg, 
But  let  us  all  concur  in  this  one  sentiment,  that 
things  sacred  be  inviolate. 

He  lives,  who  lives  to  God  alone 

And  all  are  dead  beside  , 
For  other  source  than  God  is  none 

Whence  life  can  be  supplied. 

To  live  to  God  is  to  requite 

His  love  as  best  we  may :  ; \u5^<\ 

To  make  his  precepts  our  delight. 

His  promises  our  stay. 

But  life,  within  a  narrow  ring  jj  .j^y 

Of  giddy  joys  compris'd, 
Is  falsely  nam'd,  and  no  such  thing, 

But  rather  death  disguis'd. 

Can  life  in  them  deserve  the  name, 

Who  only  live  to  prove 
For  what  poor  toys  they  can  disclaim 

An  endless  life  above. 

Who  much  diseas'd,  yot  nothing  feel ; 

Much  menacM,  nothing  dread  , 
Have  wounds,  which  only  God  can  heal, 

Yet  never  ask  his  aid  ? 


BILL  OF  MORTALITY.  219 

Who  doem  his  house  a  useless  place, 

Faith  want  of  common  sense  ; 
And  ardour  in  the  Christian  race, 

A  hypocrite's  pretence  ? 

Who  trample  order  ;  and  the  day, 

Which  God  asserts  his  own, 
Dishonour  with  unhallow'd  play, 

And  worship  chance  alone  ? 

If  scorn  of  God's  commands,  impressed 

On  word  and  deed,  imply 
Tlio  better  part  of  man  unbless'd 

With  life  that  cannot  die  ; 

Such  want  it,  and  that  want  unciir'd 

Till  man  resigns  his  breath. 
Speaks  him  a  criminal,  assur'd 

Of  everlasting  death. 

Sad  period  to  a  pleasant  course  ! 

Yet  so  will  God  repay 
Sabbaths  profan'd  without  remorse, 

And  mercy  cast  awav. 


(220) 
INSCRIPTION, 

FOR  TIBS  TOMB  CF  MR.  HAMILTOH. 


PAUSE  here,  and  think :  a  monitory  rhyme 
Demands  one  moment  of  thy  fleeting  time. 

Consult  life's  silent  clock,  thy  bounding  vein ; 
Seems  it  to  say—"  Health  here  has  long  to  reigc  ?'» 
Hast  thou  the  vigour  of  thy  youth  ?  an  eye 
That  beams  delight  ?  a  heart  untaught  to  sigh  ? 
Vet  fear.    Youth,  ofttimes  healthful  and  at  ease, 
Anticipates  a  day  it  never  sees; 
And  many  a  tomb,  like  Hamilton's,  aloud 
Exclaims,  *'  Prepare  thee  for  an  early  shroud." 


EPITAPH  ON  A  HARE. 


HERE  lies,  whom  hound  did  ne'er  pursue^, 
Nor  swifter  grayhound  follow, 

Whose  foot  ne'er  tainted  morning  dew, 
Nor  ear  heard  huntsman's  lialloo, 

Old  Tiney,  surliest  of  his  kind, 
Who,  nurs'd  with  tender  care, 

And  to  domestick  bounds  confin'd, 
Was  still  a  wild  ^ack-hare 


EFITAPH  ON  A  HARE.  221 

Though  duly  from  my  hand  he  took 

His  pittance  ev'ry  night, 
He  did  it  with  a  jealous  look, 

And,  when  he  could,  would  bite, 

His  diet  was  of  wheaten  bread, 

And  milk,  and  oats,  and  straw; 
Thistles,  or  lettuces  instead. 

With  sand  to  scour  his  maw. 

On  twigs  of  hawthorn  he  regal'd, 

On  pippen's  russet  peel. 
And,  when  his  juicy  salads  fail'd, 

Slic'd  carrot  pleas'd  him  well. 

A  turkey  carpet  was  his  lawn 

Whereon  he  lov'd  to  bound, 
To  skip  and  gambol  like  a  fawn. 

And  swing  his  rump  around. 

His  frisking  was  at  ev'ning  hours. 

For  then  he  lost  his  fear, 
But  most  before  approaching  show'rs, 

Or  when  a  storm  drew  near. 

Eight  years  and  five  round  rolling  moons 

He  thus  saw  steal  away. 
Dozing  out  all  his  idle  noons. 

And  ev'ry  night  at  play. 

I  kept  him  for  his  humour's  sake. 

For  he  would  oft  beguile 
My  heart  of  thoughts,  that  made  it  ache, 

And  force  me  to  a  smile. 

But  now  beneath  this  walnut  shade 

He  finds  his  long  last  home, 
And  waits,  in  snug  concealment  laid. 

Till  gentler  Puss  shall  come 
19' 


222  EPITAPHIUM  ALTERUM. 

He,  still  more  aged,  feels  the  shocks, 

From  which  no  care  can  save, 
And,  partner  once  of  Tiney's  box, 

Must  soon  partake  his  grave. 


EPITAPHIUM  ALTERUM, 

Hie  etiam  jacet. 

Qui  totum  novennium  vixit, 

Puss. 

Siste  paiilisper, 

Qui  praeteriturus  es, 

Et  tecum  sic  reputa — 

Hunc  neque  canis  venaticus, 

Nee  plumbum  missile, 

Nee  laqueus, 

Nee  imbres  nimii, 

Confecere  : 

Tamen  mortuus  est — 

Et  moriar  ego. 


.•^ 


(223) 

The  following  account  of  the  treatment  of  his 
hares  was  inserted  by  mr.  cowper  in  the  gen- 
tleman's magazine,  whence  it  is  transcribed. 


IN  the  year  1774,  being  much  indisposed  both  in 
mind  and  body,  incapable  of  diverting  myself  either 
with  company  or  books,  and  yet  in  a  condition  that 
made  some  diversion  necessary,  I  was  glad  of  any 
thing  that  would  engage  my  attention  without  fa- 
tiguing it  The  children  of  a  neighbonr  of  mine  had 
a  leveret  given  them  for  a  plaything ;  it  was  at  that 
time  about  three  months  old.  Understanding  better 
how  to  tease  the  poor  creature  than  to  feed  it,  and 
soon  becoming  weary  of  their  charge,  they  readily  con- 
sented that  their  father,  who  sa.w  it  p:ti  ng  and  grow- 
ing leaner  every  day,  should  offer  it  to  my  acceptance. 
I  was  willing  enough  to  take  the  prisoner  under  my 
protection,  perceiving  that,  in  the  management  of  such 
an  animal,  and  in  the  attempt  to  tame  it,  I  should  find 
just  that  sort  of  employment  which  my  case  required. 
It  was  soon  known  among  the  neighbours  that  I  was 
pleased  with  the  present ;  and  the  consequence  was, 
that  in  a  short  time  I  had  as  many  leverets  offered  to 
me  as  would  have  stocked  a  paddock.  I  undertook  the 
care  of  three,  which  it  is  necessary  that  I  should  hero 
distinguish  by  the  names  I  gave  them — Puss,  Tiney, 
and  Bess.  Notwithstanding  the  two  feminine  appella- 
tives, I  must  inform  you  that  they  were  all  males.  Im- 
mediately commencing  carpenter,  I  built  them  houses 
to  sleep  in  ;  each  had  a  separate  apartment,  so  contriv- 
ed, that  their  ordure  would  pa.js  through  the  bottom 
of  it ;  an  earthen  pan  placed  under  each  received  what- 
soever fell,  which  being  duly  emptied  and  washed, 
they  were  thus  kept  perfectly  sweet  and  clean.  In  tlie 
daytime  they  had  the  range  of  a  hall,  and  at  night  re- 


(  224  ) 
lirod,  each  to  his  own  bea,  never  intruding  into  that  of 
another. 

Puss  grew  presently  familiar,  would  leap  into  my 
lap,  raise  himself  upon  his  hinder  feet,  and  bite  the 
hair  from  my  temples.  He  would  suffer  me  to  take 
him  up,  and  to  carry  him  about  in  my  arms,  and  hag 
more  than  once  fallen  fast  asleep  upon  my  knee.  He 
was  ill  three  days,  during  which  time  I  nursed  him, 
kept  him  apart  from  his  fellows,  that  they  might  not 
molest  him,  (for,  like  many  other  wild  animals,  they 
persecute  one  of  their  own  species  that  is  sick,)  and  by 
constant  care,  and  trying  him  with  a  variety  of  herbs, 
restored  him  to  perfect  health.  No  creature  could  be 
more  grateful  than  my  patient  after  his  recovery ;  a 
sentiment  which  he  most  significantly  expressed  by 
licking  my  hand,  first  the  back  of  it,  dien  the  palm, 
then  every  finger  separately,  then  between  all  the  fin- 
gers, as  if  anxious  to  leave  no  part  of  it  unsaluted  ;  a 
ceremony  which  he  never  performed  but  once  again 
upon  a  similar  occasion.  Finding  him  extremely  tract- 
able, I  made  it  my  custom  to  carry  him  always  after 
breakfast  into  the  garden,  where  he  hid  himself  gene- 
rally under  the  leaves  of  a  cucumber  vine,  sleeping  or 
chewing  the  cud  till  evening :  in  the  leaves  also  of 
that  vine  ho  found  a  favourite  repast.  I  had  not  long 
habituated  him  to  this  taste  of  liberty,  before  he  began 
to  be  impatient  for  the  roturn  of  the  time  wlien  he 
might  enjoy  it.  He  would  invite  me  to  the  garden  by 
drumming  upon  my  knee,  and  by  a  look  of  such  ex- 
pression, as  it  was  not  possible  to  misinterpret.  If  this 
rhetorick  did  not  immediately  succeed,  he  would  take 
the  skirt  of  my  coat  between  his  teeth,  and  pull  at  it 
with  all  his  force.  Thus  Puss  might  be  said  to  be  per- 
fectly tamed,  the  shyn'^ss  of  his  nature  was  done  away, 
and  on  the  whole  it  was  visible  by  many  symptoms 
which  1  have  not  room  to  enumerate,  that  he  was  hap 
pier  m  human  society  than  -when  shut  up  with  his  na 
^ural  companions 


(  225  ) 

Not  so  Tincy  ;  upon  him  the  kindest  treatment  had 
not  the  least  effect.  He,  too,  was  sick,  and  in  his  sick- 
ness had  an  equal  share  of  my  attention  ;  but  if  after 
his  recovery  I  took  the  liberty  to  stroke  him,  he  would 
grunt,  strike  with  his  fore  feet,  spring  forward,  and 
bite.  He  was,  however,  very  entertaining  in  his  way  ; 
even  his  surliness  was  matter  of  mirth ;  and  in  his 
J)lay  he  preserved  such  an  air  of  gravity,  and  perform- 
ed his  feats  with  such  a  solemnity  of  manner,  that  in 
him,  too,  I  had  an  agreeable  companion. 

Bess,  who  died  soon  after  he  was  full  grown,  and 
whose  death  was  occasioned  by  his  being  turned  into 
his  oox,  which  had  been  washed,  while  it  was  yet  damp, 
was  a  hare  of  great  humour  and  drollery.  Puss  was 
tamed  by  gentle  usage  ;  Tiney  was  not  to  be  tamed  at 
all :  and  Bess  had  a  courage  and  confidencs  that  made 
him  tame  from  the  beginning.  I  always  admitted  them 
into  the  parlour  after  supper,  when  the  carpet  afford- 
ing their  feet  a  firm  hold,  tliey  would  frisk,  and  bound 
and  play  a  thousand  gambols,  in  which  Bess,  being  re- 
markably strong  and  fearless,  was  always  superiour  to 
the  rest,  and  proved  himself  the  Vestris  of  the  party. 
One  evening  the  cat,  being  in  the  room,  had  the  hardi- 
ness to  pat  Bess  upon  the  cheek,  an  indignity  which 
he  resented  by  drumming  upon  her  back  with  such 
violence,  that  the  cat  was  happy  to  escape  from  under 
his  paws,  and  hide  herself. 

I  describe  these  animals  as  having  each  a  charac- 
ter of  his  own.  Such  tliey  were  in  fact,  and  their 
countenances  were  so  expressive  of  that  character, 
that,  when  I  looked  only  on  the  face  of  either,  1  im- 
mediately knew  which  it  was.  It  is  said  that  a  shep- 
herd, however  numerous  his  flock,  soon  becomes  so 
familiar  with  their  features,  that  lie  can,  by  that  indi- 
cation only,  distinguish  each  from  all  the  rest  ;  and 
yet,  to  a  common  observer,  the  difference  is  hardly* 
perceptible.  I  doubt  not  that  the  same  discr'miination 
in  thi  cast  of  countenances  would  be  discoverable  in 


(  226  ; 
hares,  and  am  persuaded  that  among  a  tliou-sand  of 
them,  no  tvrr  could  be  found  exactly  similar ;  a  circum- 
stance little  suspected  by  those  who  have  not  had  op- 
portunity to  observe  it.  These  creatures  have  a  sin- 
gular sagacity  in  discovering  the  minutest  alteration 
that  is  made  in  the  place  to  which  they  are  accustom- 
ed and  instantly  apply  their  nose  to  the  examination 
of  a  new  object.  A  small  hole  being  burnt  in  the  car- 
pet, it  was  mended  with  a  patch,  and  that  patch  in  a 
moment  underwent  the  strictest  scrutiny.  They  seem, 
too,  to  be  very  much  directed  by  the  smell  in  the  fthoice 
of  their  favourites  ;  to  some-persons,  though  they  saw 
them  daily,  they  could  never  be  reconciled,  and  would 
even  scream  when  they  attempted  to  touch  them  ;  but 
a  miller  coming  in,  engaged  their  affections  at  once 
his  powdered  coat  had  charms  that  were  irresistible. 
It  is  no  wonder  that  my  intimate  acquaintance  with 
these  specimens  of  the  kind,  has  taught  me  to  hold  the 
sportsman's  amusPinent  in  abhorrence  :  he  little  knows 
what  amiable  creatures  he  persecutes,  of  what  grati- 
tude they  are  capable,  how  cheerful  they  are  in  their 
spirits,  what  enjoyment  they  have  of  life,  and  that, 
impressed  as  they  seem  with  a  peculiar  dread  of  man, 
it  is  only  because  man  gives  them  peculiar  cause  for  it. 

That  I  may  not  be  tedious,  I  will  just  give  a  short 
summary  of  these  articles  of  diet  that  suit  them  best. 

I  take  it  to  be  a  general  opinion  that  they  graze,  but 
it  is  an  erroneous  one  ;  at  least  grass  is  not  their  sta- 
ple ;  they  seem  rather  to  use  it  medicinally,  soon  quit- 
ting it  for  leaves  of  almost  any  kind.  Sowthistle,  dan- 
delion, and  lettuce,  are  their  favourite  vegetables,  es- 
pecially the  last.  I  discovered  by  accident  that  fino 
white  sand  is  in  great  estimation  with  them  ;  I  sup- 
pose as  a  digestive.  It  happened  that  I  was  cleaning 
a  bird  cage  while  the  hares  were  with  me  :  I  placed  a 
'  pot  tilled  with  such  sand  upon  the  floor,  which,  being 
al  uiicc  directed  to  by  a  strong  instinct,  they  devoured 
voiaciou^ly  ;  since   that   time   I   have   generally  taken 


^  227  ) 
care  to  see  Cityin  well  supplied  with  it.  They  account 
green  corn  a  delicacy,  both  blade  and  stalk,  but  the  ear 
they  seldom  eat :  straw  of  any  kind,  especially  wheat 
straw,  is  another  of  their  dainties ;  they  will  feed 
greedily  upon  oats,  but  if  furnished  with  clean  straw 
never  want  them ;  it  serves  them  also  for  a  bed,  and 
if  shaken  up  daily,  will  be  kept  sweet  and  dry  for  a 
considerable  time.  They  do  not  indeed  require  aro- 
matick  herbs,  but  will  eat  a  small  quantity  of  them 
with  great  relish,  and  are  particularly  fond  of  the  plant 
called  musk  :  they  seem  to  resemble  sheep  in  this,  that 
if  their  pasture  be  too  succulent,  they  are  very  subject 
to  the  rot :  to  prevent  which,  I  always  made  bread 
their  principal  nourishment,  and,  filling  a  pan  with  it 
cut  into  ^mall  squares,  placed  it  every  evening  in  their 
chambers,  for  they  feed  only  at  evening,  and  in  the 
night :  during  the  winter,  when  vegetables  were  not 
to  be  got,  I  mingled  this  mess  of  bread  with  shreds  of 
carrot,  adding  to  it  the  rind  of  apples  cut  extremely 
thin  ;  for,  though  they  are  fond  of  the  paring,  the  ap- 
ple itself  disgusts  them.  These,  however,  not  being 
a  sufficient  substitute  for  the  juice  of  summer  herbs, 
they  must  at  this  time  be  supplied  with  water  ;  but  so 
placed,  that  they  cannot  overset  it  into  their  beds.  I 
must  not  omit,  that  occasionally  they  are  much  pleas- 
ed with  twigs  of  hawthorn  and  of  the  common  brier, 
eating  even  the  very  wood  whe»  it  is  of  considerable 
thickness.  i 

Bess,  I  have  said,  died  young  j  Tiney  lived  to  be 
nine  years  old,  and  died  at  last.  I  have  reason  to 
think,  of  some  hurt  in  his  loins  by  a  fall :  Puss  is  still 
living,  and  has  just  completed  his  tenth  year,  disco 
vering  no  signs  of  decay,  nor  even  of  age,  except  tliat 
he  is  grown  more  discreet  and  less  frolicksome  than 
he  was.  I  cannot  conclude  without  observing,  that  I 
have  lately  introduced  a  dog  to  his  acquaintance — a 
spaniel  that  had  never  seen  a  hare,  to  a  hare  that  had 
never  seen  a  spaniel.     I  did  it  with  crreat  caution,  but 


(228) 
there  was  no  real  need  of  it.  Puss  discovered  no  t  d- 
ken  of  fear,  nor  Marquis  the  least  sy  u;ptom  of  hostility. 
There  is,  therefore,  it  should  seem,  no  natural  antipa- 
thy between  dog*  and  hare,  but  the  pursuit  of  the  one 
occasions  the  flight  of  the  othei,  and  the  dog  pursues 
because  he  is  trained  to  it ;  they  eat  bread  at  the  same 
time  out  of  the  same  hand,  and  are  in  all  respects 
sociable  and  friendly. 

I  should  not  do  complete  justice  to  my  subject,  did 
I  not  add,  that  they  have  no  ill  scent  belonging  to 
them  ;  that  they  are  indefatigably  nice  in  keeping 
themselves  clean,  for  which  purpose  nature  has  fur- 
nished them  with  a  brush  under  each  foot ;  and  that 
they  are  never  infested  by  any  vermin. 
May  28, 1784. 


Memorandum  Jound  among  Mr.  Cowpcr's  papers. 

Tuesday,  Marcii  9,  1786 
This  day  died  poor  Puss,  aged  eleven  years  eleven 
months.    Ho  died  between  twelve  and  one  at  uoon,  ot 
mere  old  age,  and  apparently  without  pain. 


END  OF  VOL.  u. 


POEMS, 
WILLIAM  COWPER,  ESQ. 

TOGETHER   WITH  HIS 

POSTHUMOUS  POETRY, 

AND 

A  SKETCH  OF  HIS  LIFE 
BY  JOHN  JOHNSON,  LL.  D. 

THREE   VOLUMES   IN    ONE. 
NEW  EDITION. 

BOSTON: 

PHILLIPS,    SAMPSON,   AND    COMPANY. 

NEW  YORK:  J.  C.  DERBY. 
1855. 


iia^IWOO   MAUJJ*// 


'^11 


iunao' 


RIGHT  HONOURABLE 


EARL  SPENCER. 


MY  LORD, 

A  GENERAL  requost  having  encouraged  me  to  become 
the  Editor  of  a  more  complete  collection  of  the  post- 
humous compositions  of  my  revered  relation,  the  poet 
CowpER,  than  has  hitherto  appeared,  I  consider  it  aa 
my  duty  to  the  deceased,  to  inscribe  the  volume  that 
contains  them  to  his  exalted  friend,  by  whom  the  ge- 
nius of  the  poet  was  as  justly  appreciated,  as  the  virtues 
of  the  moralist  were  effectually  patronized.  It  would 
oe  impertinent  in  me  to  attempt  any  new  encomium 
on  a  writer  so  highly  endeared  to  every  cultivated 
mind  in  that  country  which  it  was  the  favourite  exer- 
cise of  his  patriotick  spirit  to  describe  and  to  celebrate  : 
but  I  may  be  allowed  to  observe,  that  one  of  the  few 
additions  inserted  in  this  collection  will  be  particular- 
ly welcome  to  every  reader  of  sensibility,  as  an  eulogy 
on  that  attractive  quality  so  gracefully  visible  in  all 
the  writings  of  Cowper. 

Permit  me  to  close  this  imperfect  tribute  of  my  re- 
spect, by  saying,  it  is  my  deep  sense  of  those  impor- 
tant services,  for  which  the  afflicted  poet  was  indebted 
to  the  kindness  of  Lord  Spencer,  that  impels  me  to 
the  liberty  I  am  now  taking,  of  thus  publickly  declar- 
ing myself 

Your  Lordship's 
Highly  obliged,  and 
Very  faithful  servant, 
JOHN  JOHNSON. 


PREFACE. 


1t  is  incumbent  6h  me  to  apprize  the  reader  tnat, 
by  far  the  greater  part  of  the  poems  to  which  I  have 
now  the  honour  to  introduce  him,  have  been  already 
published  by  Mr.  Hayley.  That  endeared  friend  of 
the  deceased  poet  having  enriched  his  copious  and 
faithful  life  of  him  with  a  large  collection  of  his  minor 
pieces  soon  after  his  death,  and  having  since  given  to 
the  world  a  distinct  edition  of  his  Translations  from  the 
Latin  and  Italian  verses  of  Milton,  every  thing  seem- 
ed to  be  accomplished  that  the  merits  and  memory  of 
a  poet,  so  justly  popular  as  Cowper,  appeared  to  re- 
quire. But  of  late  years  a  fresh  and  detached  colleqi^ 
tion  of  all  his  poems  being  wished  for  by  his  friends,  I 
was  flattered  by  their  request,  that  I  would  present 
them  to  the  publick  as  the  editor  of  his  third  poetical 
volume. 

Having  accepted  this  honourable  invitation,  my 
first  care  was  to  assemble  as  many  of  the  editions  of 
the  two  former  volumes  as  I  could  possibly  meet  with, 
that  nothing  might  be  admitted  into  their  projected 
companion  which  the  publick  already  possessed  in 
them.  With  one  slight  exception  I  believe  I  secured 
that  desirable  point.  My  next  employment  was  to 
make  such  a  copious  but  careful  selection  from  the 
unpublished  poetry  of  Cowper,  which  I  happily  pos- 
lessed,  and  which  I  had  only  imparted  to  a  few  friends, 
as,  while  it  gratified  his  admirers,  might  in  no  instance 
detract  from  his  poetical  reputation.  I  should  tremble 
for  the  hazard  to  which  my  partiality  to  the  compo- 
sitions of  my  beloved  relation  exposed  me  in  discharg- 
ing this  part  of  my  ofiice,  if  I  did  not  hope  to  find  in 


--—  -^^-1 


^ 


PREFACE.  b 

the  reader  a  fondness  of  the  same  kind  >  and  if  1 
were  not  assured  that  a  careless  or  slovenly  habit,  in 
the  production  of  his  verses,  has  never  been  imputed 
to  the  author  of  the  Task. 

The  materials  of  the  volume  being  thus  provided, 
the  ascertaining  their  dates  was  my  remaining  con- 
cern. In  a  few  instances  I  found  them  affixed  to  the 
poems  by  their  author  ;  a  few  more  I  collected  from 
intimations  in  his  letters  ;  but  in  several,  the  difficulty 
of  discovering  them  pressed  upon  myself.  This  was 
especially  the  case  with  the  very  interesting  additional 
poem  addressed  by  Cowper  to  an  unknown  lady  on 
reading  "  the  Prayer  for  Indifference^  Of  the  ex- 
istence of  these  verses  I  had  not  even  heard  till  I  was 
called  on  to  superintend  the  volume,  in  which  they 
make  their  first  publick  appearance.  1  am  inclined  to 
believe,  that  during  the  ten  years  of  my  domestick 
intercourse  with  the  poet,  they  had  never  occurred  to 
his  recollection.  He  appears  to  have  imparted  them 
^nly  to  his  highly  valued  and  affectionate  relative,  the 
Reverend  Martin  Madan,  brother  of  the  late  Bishop 
of  Peterborough,  from  whose  Common-place  Book 
they  were  transcribed  by  his  daughter,  and  kindly 
communicated  to  me.  There  being  nothing  in  Mr. 
Madan's  copy  of  these  verses  from  which  their  date 
could  be  inferred,  it  was  only  by  a  minute  comparison 
of  the  poem  itself  with  the  various  local  and  mental 
circumstances,  which  his  life  exhibits,  that  I  was  en- 
abled to  discover  the  year  of  their  production.  The 
labour  attending  this  and  other  instances  of  research, 
in  which  I  have  been  obliged  to  engage  for  the  pur- 
pose of  ascertaining  the  dates  of  several  minor  poems, 
will  be  best  understood  by  those  who  are  practically 
acquainted  with  similar  investigations.  After  all, 
there  are  some  of  which  no  diligence  of  mine  could 
develope  the  exact  time  ;  but  with  the  greater  number 
I  trust  their  proper  order  of  succession  has  been  care 
fully  secured  to  them. 
1* 


6  PREFACE. 

From  this  brief  account  of  the  volume  befoie  the 
reader,  I  pass  on  to  the  memoir  of  its  author.  Had  I  not 
already  embarked  in  a  preparation  of  the  poems,  when 
I  was  requested  to  prefix  a  sketch  of  the  poet's  life,  an 
unaffected  distrust  of  my  ability  to  achieve  it  would 
have  precluded  me  from  making  such  an  attempt ;  but 
a  peculiar  interest  in  these  relicks  of  Cowper  having 
been  wrought  into  my  feelings,  while  I  was  arranging 
them  for  the  press,  I  was  unwilling  to  shrink  from  a 
proposed  task,  by  which  I  might  hope  to  contribute,  in 
Bome  degree,  to  the  expanding  renown  of  my  revered 
relation.  I  therefore  venture  to  advance  on  the  only 
path  in  the  wild  field  of  biography,  in  which  my  hum- 
ble steps  could  accompany  Cowper,  namely,  that  in 
which  I  could  simply 


(As  in  a  map,  the  voyager  his  course,) 

The  windings  of  his  way  through  many  years." 

Into  this  path  it  might  seem  presumptuous  in  me  t^ 
invite  those  whom  my  kind  and  constant  friend,  Mr. 
Hayley,  has  made  intimately  acquainted  with  Cowper, 
oy  his  extensive  and  just  biography  ;  but  to  such 
readers  as  happen  not  to  have  perused  his  more  copious 
work,  I  may  venture  to  recommend  the  following 
"  Map  of  Cowper's  Life,"  as  possessing  one  of  its 
prime  characteristicks,  namely,  fidelity  of  delineation. 

Bedford,  April,  1815 


CONTENTS. 

i 

I 

» 

Sketch  oV  the  Author's  life 

13 

Verses  written*  on  finding  the  Heel  of  a  Shoe 

62 

Stanzas  ofi  the  First  Publication  of  Sir  Charles 

Grandison                -             -             .             - 

63 

•              Epistle  to  Robert  Lloyd,  Esq. 

64 

1              Fifth  Sati»e  of  the  First  Book  of  Horace 

67 

Ninth  Satire  of  the  First  Book  of  Horace 

74 

Address  t(5  Miss ,  on  reading  the  prayer  for 

Indiflference            -            -            .            . 

79 

.     Translation  from  Virgil       ... 

82 

!P>id.  Trifet.  Lib.  V.  Eleg.  XH. 

94 

A  Tale  founded/ on  a  Fact  - 

96 

^     Translation  of  a  Simile  in  Paradise  Lost 
^     Translation  of  Dryden*s  Epigram  on  Milton 

98 

ib. 

To  the  Kev.  Mr.  Newton,  on  his  Return  from 

Ramsgate               -            -            -            • 

99 

Love  Abased            -            -            -            . 

ib. 

Poetical  Epistle  to  Lady  Austen 

100 

From  a  letter  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Newton 

104 

^he  Colubri^d               .... 

105 

'"■^^^    On  Friendship          .... 
■■M^n  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George 

i^  i/ 

^^^  In  Submersionem  Navigii,  cui  Georgius  Regalis 

^^              Nomen,  inditum 

114 

Song  on  Peace              .... 

115 

Song,  written  at  the  request  of  Lady  Austen 

116 

Verses  from  a  Poem  entitled  Valediction 

117 

In  Brevitatem  Vitce  Spatii  Hominibus  concessi 

119 

On  tlie  Shortness  of  Human  life      - 

ib. 

-::•   -  ■  ■  •-    ■   - ■■:    ■-■     ■             ~ ,• -—  - 

8                               CONTENTS. 

...-..-■^r:. ,,2:.-,.  .••, 

•^pitaph  on  Johnson             ... 
To  Miss  C-4-,  on  her  Birth-day 
Gratitude     '---.- 

120 

ib 

121      " 

The  Flatting  Mill          .... 

123 

Lines  for  ^  Memorial  of  Ashley  Cowper,  Esq. 

124 

On  the  Queen's  Visit  to  London 

ib. 

The  Cock-fighter's  Garland   - 

127 

On  the  Benefit  received  by  his  Majesty  from 

Sea-Bathing      -            -            -            - 

130 

Hor.  Lib.  I.  Ode  IX.                  -            -         '  . 

ib. 

Hor.  Lib]  I.  Ode  XXXVIL 
Hor.  B.  ll  Ode  XXXVIIL 

131 

132 

Hor.  Lib.  n.  OdeXVL       - 

ib. 

Latin  Verses  to  the  Memory  of  Dr.  Lloyd      - 

134 

The  same  in  English 

135 

To  Mrs.  Throckmorton             .            -            . 

136 

Inscription  for  a  Stone  erected  at  the  sowing  of 

a  Grove  of  Oaks                -            -   '         - 

137 

.  Another,  for  a  Stone  erected  on  a  similar  occasion 

138     . 

Hymn  for  the  Sunday  School  at  Olney         *  - 

«      - 

On  the  late  indecent  Liberties  taken  with  the 

Remains  of  Milton 

139     ^ 
141     ^ 

To  Mrs.  King   -            -            -             -            . 

Anecdote  of  Homer             ^            .            . 

142 

In  Memory  of  the  late  J.  Thornton,  Esq. 

144 

The  Four  Ages        -            -            .            . 

145 

The  Judgment  of  the  Poets      - 

147 

To  Charles  Diodati              -            -         -  - 

150 

On  the  Death  of  the  University  Beadle  a^  Cam- 

^ 

bridge                -            -            -            - 

153    ^^- 

J       On  the  Death  of  the  Bishop  of  Winchester    - 

i54;Mi 

To  his  Tutor,  Thomas  Young 

157^H 

On  the  Approach  of  Spring      ... 

161    ^^ 

To  Charles  Diodati 

165 

Composed  in  the  Author's  Nineteenth  Year    - 

J  68 

Epigram. — On  the  Inventor  of  Guns 

171 

Epigram. — To  Leonora,  singing  at  Rome 

172 

Epigram.  -To  the  same      -             -             - 

ib. 

CONTENTS.  9 

The  Cottager  |Lnd  his  J^andlord  -           -        i7,f» 

To  Christiana,  Queen  of  Sweden  -  -                ib. 

On  the  Death  of' a  Physician  -            -         174 

On  the  Death  of  the  Bishop  of  Ely  .              176 

Nature  unimpaired  by  Time     -  -            -        178 

On  the  Platonick  Idea         ...  jgx 

To  his  father    -    -^      -            .  .            .        jgg 

To  Salaillus,  a  Roman  Poet            -  .             I87?r-* 
To  Giovanni  Battista  Manso,  Marquis  of  Villa       189 

On  the  Death  of  Damon    -            -  -              193 

An  Ode  addressed  to  Mr.  John  Rouse  -        203 
Sonnet 
Sonetto 
Sonnet 
Sonetto 

Canzono       -.           >           •            »  ,              209 

Canzone             -            -            -  .            -          ib 

Sonnet.— To  Charles  Diodati         -  .             210 
Sonetto 

Sonetto 


207 

ibr* 

208"^ 
ib. 


met  -  -  -  .  .  211 


^    Sonetto  -  •  -  -  -  ib 

Epitaph  on  Mrs,  M.  Higgins,  of  Weston  -  213  a- 

The  Retired  Cat  "  -  -  -        JL  X 

j_5^rdleyOak  ....      %  m^  \X 

To  the  Niffhtinffale       -  -  .  .     ^?8o     ^ 


to  the  Nightingale 
Lines  written  for  Insertion  in  a  collection  of 

•-       Hand-writings  and    Signatures  made  by 

Miss  Patty,  Sister  of  Hannah  More  -        223 

•  •  Epitaph  on  a  Redbreast      -            .            .  ib. 

Sonnet  to  W.  Wilberforce,  Esq.           -  -        224 

Epigram 225 

To  Dr.  Austin               -            -            -  .        226 

Sonnet,  addressed  to  William  Hayley,  Esq.  227 

Catharina          -            .            .            .  .        228 

An  Epitaph              -            .            .            .  229 

•inEpitaph  on  Fop             -            -            .  .        230 


10                             CONTENTS. 

^►^onnet  to  George  Romnoy,  Esq.    - 

. 

23C 

On  receiving  Hayley's  Picture 

- 

231. 

Epitaph  on  Mr.  Chester,  of  Chicheley      - 

232 

On  a  Plant  of  Virgin's  bower 

. 

ib 

To  my  cousin,  Anna  Bodham 

. 

233 

, 

Inscription  for  an  Hermitage  in  the  Author's 

3 

Garden              -            -            >u 

. 

234 

^^0  Mrs.  CJnwin 

•            • 

ib 

To  John  Johnson     -           -              . 

. 

235 

To  a  young  Friend 

• 

236 

A  Tale          -            - 

. 

ib 

To  William  Hayley,  Esq. 

. 

240 

•t)n  a  Spaniel,  called  Beau,  killing  a 

Bird-- 

241 

^Beau's  Reply    j            -             - 

. 

242 

Answer  to  Stanzas  addressed  to  T.ady  Hesketh 

243             1 

To  the  Spanish  Admiral,  Count  Gravlna 

ib. 

/ 

On  Flaxman's  Penelope 

244 

\1 

On  receiving  Heyne's  Virgil   - 

. 

i^l/ 

\ 

^^s^^o  Mary      ^             -              .              - 

Montes'Glaciales 

^ 

On  the  Ice  Islands 

aipThe  Castaway       . 

Thrax           .... 

•           • 

253   ^ 

The  Thracian  ... 

m                       • 

254 

Mutua  Benevolentia 

ib. 

J  ^Reciprocal  KindDess     - 

• 

250<r^-.L 

Manuale       -            -            .            . 

257 

i 

A  Manual          .            -            - 

• 

258 

1 

Enigma       -             .             .            . 

260"^* 

! 

An  Enigma        -            -            . 

»                        « 

2C1 

Passeres  Indigens  -            .             - 

262  •     ■•*' 

Sparrovi^s  self-domesticated 

. 

263 

Nulli  te  facias  nimis  sodalem 

264 

Familiarity  Dangerous 

ib. 

1                  Ad  Rubeculam  Invitatio 

- 

265 

Invitation  to  the  Redbreast 

- 

266 

StradflB  Philomela    -             -             - 

. 

267 

j                  Strada's  Nightingale     - 

■ 

ib** 

CONTENTS. 

11 

Anus  Saecularis 

- 

263 

•Ode  on  the  Death  of  a  Lady 

• 

• 

270^*^ 

Victoria  Forensis    - 

• 

271 

The  Cause  Won 

• 

272 

Bombyx        -            -            • 

- 

ib. 

The  Silk  Wonn 

• 

» 

273 

Innocens  Praedatrix 

274 

The  Innocent  Thief     • 

• 

ib. 

Denneri  Anus          -            • 

276 

Denner's  Old  Woman 

• 

• 

277 

LacrymoB  Pictoris 

■.  i  '■' 

.■••fT..-    '.n 

.«78 

The  Tears  of  a  Painter 

Mbji-LOoim^H  ijik               \\ 

Spe  Finis      -            -            - 

m 

280 

The  Maze 

• 

m 

ib. 

Nemo  Miser  nisi  comparatua 

ib. 

No  Sorrow  peculiar  to  the  Suffer©! 

• 

m 

281 

Limax          -            .            • 

ib. 

The  Snail 

• 

• 

m 

282 

Eques  Academicus 

283 

The  Cantab 

• 

• 

m  . 

ib. 

The  Salad,  by  VirgU 

.884 

From  the  Greek  of  Julianns 

• 

• 

•-;c£m»Ia: 

1989 

On  the  same,  by  Palaadas  • 

ib. 

An  Epitaph       -            -I  m^JMisv 

• 

- 

290 

Another       -            -            • 

ib. 

Another             -            • 

• 

• 

ib.« 

Another 

291 

By  Callimachus 

•..:.•.. 

• 

• 

ib. 

On  Miltiades 

ib. 

On  an  Infant     -            • 

« 

• 

292 

By  Heraclides 

.    - 

ib. 

On  the  Reed 

;JIWOO  Jfi  » 

ib. 

To  Health 

3  ^^ 

293 

On  the  Astrologer* 

• 

- 

294 

On  an  Old  Woman 

•   -'rrjL 

Lf.  -- 

ib. 

On  Invalids 

z«inf..I  t» 

ib. 

On  Flatterers 

• 

295 

'    On  thd  Swallow 

• 

ib. 

1«  CONTENTS. 

On  late  acquired  Wealth  --  ,-      eiiijTrj.ogEiS  ai 

_-  ^On  a  True  Friend         -    7bj?vl-i5  lo  iIflj3<T  off^  n.. 
On  a  Bath,  by  Plato  .•   RienaTnl  r. 

On  a  Fowler,  by  Isiodonis       »  ift)Y/^  ogf^ 

On  Niobe     -  -  -•  -•  -•      7 


On  a  Good  Ma«  • 

On  a  Miser 

Another  •  • 

Another  - 

On  Female  Inconstanej 
On  the  Grasshopper    • 
On  Hermocratia 
From  Menander 
On  Pallas,  bathing 
To  Demosthenes 
On  a  Similar  CharaotW 
On  an  Ugly  Fellow 
On  a  Battered  Beauty 
On  a  Thief       -     -      - 
On  Pedigree     -       •    - 
On  Envy  -    «       • 

By  Philemon  -     • 

By  MoschuB 


297 
ib. 
ib. 


•  tnioV^  5f 

•  l9iifT    riv  -^         ib. 
-    •     evnA  !  ^' 

xinmoW  bfO  a';:     ^ 

-  io::rfii1  u  let  eijca'i     3^ 

•     -       f^ui    J^' 

-  ^       -     .       .  asjjiv:  ^1 
iiiUinqmoo  'mitt  lostiWI  05  3^2 

•  •  "  ii.'inci  ■■  1^^ 

8i75imsf)soA  ?;;;  i^. 

•  -        •    -        ^£tif;:^>  t304 

•  litjiiV  ^d  ,biff£p  -  ib. 
y<  rifut  ^o  3I991©  ers^  .305 

i  ^.omj3^        306 


In  Ignorantem  arrogantem  Liamn             m"  r. 

307 

On  one  Ignorant  and  Arrogant 

ib. 

•  Prudens  Simplicitas 

<•                                             •                                             • 

ib. 

Prudent  Simplicity 

•      .          -; 

ib. 

Ad  Amicum  Paupemm 

•    ttfriaismr 

ib. 

To  a  Friend  in  DistreM 

•                 •     BBOBit/ 

ib. 

Lex  Talionis 

•   -     ifHJlni  .  . 

308 

Retaliation        -            • 

•      •           •89f)il0if{3ll 

vib. 

De  Ortu  et  Oceasa      • 

b»9>I  ml. 

ib. 

Sunset  and  Sunrise 

•    •        •        diktal 

«>. 

Lepus  multis  Amicm 

•    •        ■no^oIoT#f?A  n>[, 

ao9 

\                 Avarus  et  Plutus 

•     njwnoV/  bli¥ 

311 

ffepilio  et  Limax     ^ 

•    •         •    -        !#)iii;- 

312 

!                   -',1? 

BTOIO.! 

1 : ^ .^^^■->-^.-, 

YtoUawci  .. 
t 

SKETCH 


OP 


THE  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


William  Cowper,  the  subject  of  the  following  brief 
Memoir,  was  born  at  Great  Berkhamstead,  in  Hert- 
fordshire, on  the  fifteenth  of  November,  1731.  His 
father,  the  Rev.  John  Cowper,  D.  D.  Rector  of  that 
place,  and  one  of  the  chaplains  of  King  George  the 
Second,  married  Anne,  daughter  of  Roger  Donne, 
Esq.  of  Lodham-hall,  in  the  county  of  Norfolk.  She 
died  in  childbed  on  the  thirteenth  of  November,  1737 ; 
and  he  of  a  paralytick  seizure  on  the  tenth  of  July, 
1756.  Of  five  sons  and  two  daughters,  the  issue  of 
this  marriage,  William  and  John  only  survived  their 
parents  :  the  rest  died  in  their  infancy^ 

Such  was  his  origin  ; — ^but  it  must  be  added,  that  the. 
highest  blood  of  the  realm  flowed  in  the  veins  of  the 
modest  and  unassuming  Cowper.  It  is  perhaps  already 
known  that  his  grandfather,  Spencer  Cowper,  was 
Chief  Justice  of  the  Common  Pleas,  and  next  brother 
to  William,  first  Earl  Cowper,  and  Lord  High  Chan- 
cellor of  England  :  but  his  mother  was  descended 
through  the  families  of  Hippesley  of  Throughley,  in 
Sussex,  and  Pellet  of  Bolney,  in  the  same  county 
from  the  several  noble  houses  of  West,  Knollys,  Ca- 
rey, Bullen,  Howard,  and  Mowbray  ;  and  so  by  four 
different  lines  from  Henry  the  Third  king  of  England. 
Distinctions  of  tliis  nature  can  shed  no  additional  lustre 

Vol.  2 


14  SKETCH  OF  THE 

on  the  memory  of  Cowper  ;  but  genius,  however  ex- 
alted, disdains  not,  while  it  boasts  not,  the  splendour 
of  ancestry ;  and  royalty  itself  may  be  flattered,  and 
perhaps  benefited,  by  discovering  its  kindred  to  such 
piety,  such  purity,  such  talents  as  his. 

The  simplicity  of  the  times  that  witnessed  the  child- 
hood of  Cowper,  assigned  him  his  first  instruction  at  a 
day -school  in  his  native  village.  The  reader  may  re- 
collect an  allusion  to  this  circumstance  in  his  beautiful 
Monody  on  the  receipt  of  his  mother's  Picture, 

"  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  publick  way, 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapt 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  cap/' 

On  the  death  of  the  beloved  parent,  who  is  so  tenderly 
commemorated  in  that  exquisite  poem,  and  who  just 
lived  to  see  him  complete  his  sixth  year,  he  was  placed 
under  the  care  of  Dr.  Pitman,  of  Market-street,  a  few 
miles  distant  from  the  paternal  roof.  At  this  respecta- 
ble academy  he  remained  till  he  was  eight  years  of 
age,  when  the  alarming  appearance  of  specks  on  both 
his  eyes  induced  his  father  to  send  him  to  the  house  of 
a  female  oculist  in  London.  Her  attempts,  however, 
to  relieve  him.  were  unsuccessful,  and  at  the  expira- 
tion of  two  years  he  exchanged  her  residence  for  that 
of  Westminister-school,  where,  sometime  afterwards  a 
remedy  was  unexpectedly  provided  for  him  in  the 
emall-pox,  which,  as  he  says  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Hayley, 
••  proved  the  better  occulist  of  the  two."  What  de- 
gree of  proficiency,  as  to  the  rudiments  of  education, 
he  carried  with  him  to  this  venerable  establishment,  at 
the  head  of  which  was  Dr.  Nichols,  does  not  appear, 
but  that  he  left  it  in  the  year  1749,  with  scholastick 
attainments  of  the  first  order,  is  beyond  a  doubt. 

After  spending  three  months  with  his  father  at  Berk* 
hampstead,  he  was  placed  in  the  family  of  a  Mr.  Chap- 
man, a  solicitor,  in  London,  with  a  view  to  his  instruc 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  15 

tion  in  the  practice  of  the  law.  To  this  gentleman  he 
was  engaged  by  articles,  for  three  years.  The  oppor- 
tunities, however,  which  a  residence  in  the  house  of 
his  legal  tutor  afforded  him,  for  attaining  the  skill  that 
he  was  supposed  to  be  in  search  of,  were  so  far  from  at- 
taching him  to  legal  studies,  that  he  spent  the  greater 
part  of  his  time  in  the  house  of  a  near  relation.  This 
he  playfully  confesses  in  the  following  passage  of  a  let- 
ter to  a  daughter  of  that  relative,  more  than  thirty  years 
after  the  time  he  describes  :  "  I  did  actually  live  three 
years  with  Mr.  Chapman,  a  solicitor,  that  is  to  say,  I 
slept  three  years  in  his  house  ;  but  I  lived,  that  is  to 
say,  I  spent  my  days  in  Southampton-row,  as  you  very 
well  remember.  There  was  I,  and  the  future  Lord 
Chancellor,  constantly  employed  from  morning  to 
night  in  giggling  and  making  giggle,  instead  of  study- 
ing the  law.  Oh  fie,  cousin  !  how  could  you  do  so  r*' 
The  subject  of  this  sprightly  remonstrance  was  the 
lady  Hesketh,  who  so  materially  contributed  to  the 
comfort  of  the  dejected  poet  in  his  declining  years  , 
and  the  chancellor  alluded  to  was  lord  Thurlow.  This 
trifling  anecdote  is  no  otherwise  worthy  of  record, 
than  as  it  may  serve  to  show,  that  the  profession  which 
his  friends  had  selected  for  him,  had  nothing  in  it  con- 
genial with  the  mind  of  Cowper.  ^ 

The  three  years  for  which  he  had  been  consigned 
to  the  office  of  the  solicitor  being  expired,  at  the  age 
of  twenty-one  he  took  possession  of  a  set  of  chambers 
in'  the  Inner  Temple.  By  this  step  he  became,  or  ra- 
ther ought  to  have  become,  a  regular  student  of  law  ; 
but  it  soon  appeared  that  the  higher  pursuits  of  jurispru- 
dence were  as  little  capable  of  fixing  his  attention,  as 
the  elementary  parts  of  that  science  had  proved.  It  is 
not  to  be  supposed,  indeed,  that  at  this  maturer  age,  he 
continued  those  habits  of  idleness  and  dissipation  which 
have  already  been  noticed ;  but  it  is  certain,  from  a 
colloquial  account  of  his  early  years,  with  which  he 
favoured  his  friend  Mr.  Hayley,  that  literature,  ar.d 


(6  SKETCH  OF  THE 

particularly  of  a  poetical  kind,  was  his  principal  pur 
suit  in  the  Temple.  In  the  cultivation  of  studies  so 
agreeable  to  his  taste,  he  could  not  fail  to  associate 
occasionally  with  such  of  his  Westminster  school-fel- 
lows as  were  resident  in  London,  and  whom  he  knew 
to  be  eminent  literary  characters.  The  elder  Column, 
Bonn  el  Thornton,  and  Lloyd,  were  especially  of  this 
dt:scription.  With  these,  therefore,  he  seems  to  have 
contracted  the  greatest  intimacy,  assisting  the  two  for- 
mer in  their  periodical  publication,  The  Connoisseur  ; 
and  the  latter,  as  Mr.  Hayley  conjectures,  in  the  works 
which  his  slender  finances  obliged  him  to  engage  in 
The  Duncombes  also,  father  and  son,  two  amiable 
scholars  of  Stocks,  in  Hertfordshire,  and  intimate 
friends  of  his  surviving  parent,  were  among  the  writers 
of  the  time,  to  whose  poetical  productions  Cowper  con- 
tributed. In  short,  the  twelve  years  which  he  spent  in 
the  Temple,  were,  if  not  entirely  devoted  to  classical 
pursuits,  yet  so  much  engrossed  by  them  as  to  add 
httle  or  nothing  to  the  slender  stock  of  legal  knowledge 
which  he  had  previously  acquired  in  the  house  of  the 
solicitor. 

The  prospect  of  a  professional  income  of  his  own 
acquiring,  under  circumstances  like  these,  being  out  of 
the  question,  ajjd  his  patrimonial  resources  being  near- 
ly exhausted,  it  occurred  to  him,  towards  the  end  of  the 
above-mentioned  period,  that  not  only  was  his  long 
cherished  wish  of  settling  in  matrimonial  life,  thus 
painfully  precluded,  but  he  was  even  in  danger  of  per- 
sonal want.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  his  friends  were 
aware  of  tiie  probability  of  such  an  event,  from  the 
uniform  inattention  he  had  shown  to  his  legal  studies , 
for  in  the  thirty-first  year  of  his  age  they  procured  him 
a  nomination  to  the  offices  of  reading-clerk  and  clerk 
of  the  private  Committees  in  the  House  of  Lords. 
But  he  was  by  no  means  qualified  for  discharging  the 
duties  annexed  toeither  of  these  employments  ;  nature 
having  assigned  him  such  an  extreme  tenderness  of 


LIFE  OF  COWPER  17 

SDirit,  as,  to  use  his  own  powerful  expression,  made  a 
publick  exhibition  of  himself,  under  any  circumstances, 
"  mortal  poison"  to  him.  No  sooner,  therefore,  had  he 
adverted  to  the  consequence  of  his  accepting  so  con- 
spicuous an  appointment,  the  splendour  of  which  he 
confesses  to  have  dazzled  him  into  a  momentary  con- 
sent, than,  it  forcibly  striking  him  at  the  same  time, 
that  such  a  favourable  opportunity  for  his  marrying 
might  never  occur  again,  his  mind  became  the  seat  of  the 
most  conflicting  sensations.  These  continued  and  in- 
creased; for  the  space  of  a  week,  to  such  a  painful  de- 
gree, that  seeing  no  possible  way  of  recovering  any 
measure  of  his  former  tranquillity,  except  by  resigning 
tlie  situation  which  the  kindness  of  his  friends  had 
procured  him,  he  most  earnestly  entreated  that  they 
would  allow  him  to  do  so.  To  this,  though  with  great 
reluctance,  they  at  length  consented,  he  having  offer- 
ed to  exchange  it  for  a  much  less  lucrative  indeed,  but 
as  he  flattered  himself,  a  less  irksome  office,  which 
was  also  vacant  at  that  time,  namely,  the  clerkship  of 
the  journals  in  the  House  of  Lords. 

The  return  of  something  like  composure  to  the  mind 
of  Cowper  was  the  consequence  of  this  arrangement 
between  him  and  his  friends.  It  was  a  calm  however, 
but  of  short  duration  ;  for  he  had  scarcely  been  possess 
ed  of  it  three  days,  when  an  unhappy  and  unforeseet 
incident  not  only  robbed  him  of  this  semblance  of  com 
fort,  but  involved  him  in  more  than  his  forme- 
distress.  A  dispute  in  parliament,  in  reference  to  th^ 
last*  mentioned  appointment,  laid  him  under  the  for> 
midable  necessity  of  a  personal  appearance  at  the  bar 
of  the  house  of  Lords,  that  his  fitness  for  the  under 
taking  might  be  publickly  acknowledged.  The  trem- 
bling apprehension  with  which  the  timid  and  exquisitely 
sensible  mind  of  this  amiable  man  could  not  fail  to 
look  forward  to  an  event  of  this  sort,  rendered  every 
intermediate  attempt  to  prepare  himself  for  the  ex- 
amination completely  abortive  •  and  the  conscious 
2* 


IS  SKETCH  Or  THE 

ness  that  it  did  so,  accumulated  his  terrours.  These 
had  riseij,  in  short,  to  a  confusion  of  mind  so  incom- 
patible with  the  integrity  of  reason,  when  the  eve 
of  the  dreaded  ceremony  actually  arrived,  that  his  in- 
tellectual powers  sunk  under  it.  He  was  no  longer 
himself. 

In  this  distressing  situation  it  was  found  necessary, 
in  the  month  of  December,  1763,  to  remove  him  to  St. 
Alban's ;  from  whence,  through  the  skilful  and  humane 
treatment  of  Dr.  Cotton,  under  whose  care  he  was  plac- 
ed, his  friends  hoped  that  he  would  soon  return  in  the 
full  enjoyment  of  his  former  faculties.  In  the  most 
material  part  of  their  wish  it  pleased  God  to  indulge 
them,  his  recovery  being  happily  effected  in  some 
what  less  than  eight  months.  Instead,  however,  of  re- 
visiting the  scenes  in  which  his  painful  calamity  had 
first  occurred,  he  remained  with  his  amiable  physician 
nearly  a  twelve  month  after  he  had  pronounced  his 
cure  :  and  that  from  motives  altogether  of  a  devotional 
kind. 

On  this  part  of  the  poet's  history  it  may  be  proper  to 
observe  that  although,  if  viewed  as  an  originating 
cause,  the  subject  of  religion  had  not  the  remotest  con- 
nexion with  his  mental  calamity ;  yet  no  sooner  had 
the  disorder  assumed  the  shape  of  hypochondriasis , 
which  it  did  in  a  very  early  stage  of  its  progress,  than 
those  sacred  truths  which  prove  an  unfailing  source  of 
the  most  salutary  contemplation  to  the  undisturbed 
mind,  were,  through  the  influence  of  that  distorting 
medium,  conveiled  into  a  vehicle  of  intellectual  poi- 
son. 

A  most  erroneous  and  unhappy  idea  has  occupied  the 
minds  of  some  persons,  that  those  views  of  Christianity 
which  Cowper  adopted,  and  of  which,  when  enjoying 
the  intervals  of  reason,  he  was  so  bright  an  ornament, 
had  actually  contributed  to  excite  tne  malady  with 
which  he  was  afflicted.  It  is  capable  of  the  clearest 
demonstration,  that  nothing  was  further  from  the  truth. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  Iff 

On  the  contraiy,  all  those  alleviations  of  sorrow,  those 
delightful  anti  3ipations  of  heavenly  rest,  those  healing 
consolations  to  a  wounded  spirit,  of  which  he  was  per- 
mitted to  taste,  at  the  periods  when  uninterrupted  rea- 
son resumed  its  sway,  were  unequivocally  to  be  ascrib- 
ed to  the  operation  of  those  very  principles  and  views 
of  religion,  which,  in  the  instance  before  us,  have 
been  charged  with  producing  so  opnosite  an  effect. 
The  primary  aberrations  of  his  mental  faculties  were 
wholly  to  be  attributed  to  other  causes.  But  the 
time  was  at  hand,  when,  by  the  happy  interposition 
of  a  gracious  Providence,  he  was  to  be  the  favoured 
subject  of  a  double  emancipation.  The  captivity  of 
his  reason  was  about  to  terminate  ;  and  a  bondago, 
though  hitherto  unmentioned,  yet  of  a  much  longer 
standing,  was  on  the  point  of  being  exchanged  for  the 
delightful  of  all  freedom. 

'  A  liberty  unsung 


By  poetS;  and  by  senators  unprais'd ; 

«  «  «  *  « 

E'en  "  liberty  of  heart,*  derived  from  heav'n  : 

Bought  with  His  blood  who  gave  it  to  mankind, 

And  seal'd  with  the  same  token  !"t 

To  the  invaluable  blessing  of  such  a  change  he  was  aa 
yet  a  stranger.  He  had  been  for  some  time  convinced, 
and  that  on  scriptural  grounds,  how  much  he  stood  in 
need  of  it,  from  a  perception  of  the  fetters  with  which, 
so  long  as  he  was  capable  of  enjoying  them,  the  plea- 
sures of  the  world  and  of  sense  had  bound  his  heart  ; 
but  till  the  moment  of  his  affliction,  he  had  remained 
spiritually  a  prisoner.  The  hour  was  now  come  when 
"his  prison-doors  were  to  be  unfolded  ;  when  "  he  that 
openeth  and  no  man  shutteth,"  was  to  give  him  a  bless- 
ed experience  of  what 

"  Is  liberty  :  a  flight  into  his  arms 

Eie  yet  mortality's  fine  threads  give  way, 

•  Rom.  viii.  21  t  The  Task,  Book  V 


20  SKETCH  OF  THE 

A  clear  escape  from  tyrannising-"  sin, 
"  And  full  immunity  from  penal  wo  I"* 

On  the  25th  of  July,  1764,  his  brother,  the  Rev 
John  Cowper,  Fellow  of  Bennet  College,  Cambridge, 
having  been  informed  by  Dr.  Cotton,  that  his  patient 
was  greatly  amended,  came  to  visit  him.  The  first 
sight  of  so  dear  a  relative  in  the  enjoyment  of  health 
and  happiness,  accompanied  as  it  was  with  an  instan- 
taneous reference  to  his  own  very  different  lot,  occa- 
sioned in  the  breast  of  Cowper  many  painful  sensations. 
For  a  few  moments,  the  cloud  of  despondency  which 
had  been  gradually  removing,  involved  his  mind  in  hia 
former  darkness.  Light,  however,  was  approaching. 
His  brother  invited  him  to  walk  in  the  garden  ;  where 
so  effectually  did  he  protest  to  him,  that  the  appre- 
hensions he  felt  were  all  a  delusion,  that  he  burst  into 
tears,  and  cried  out,  "  If  it  be  a  delusion,  then  am  I 
the  happiest  of  beings."  During  the  remainder  of  the 
day,  which  he  spent  with  this  affectionate  brother,  the 
truth  of  the  above  assertion  became  so  increasingly 
evident  to  him,  that  when  he  arose  the  next  morning, 
he  was  perfectly  well. 

This,  however,  was  but  a  part  of  the  happiness 
which  the  memorable  day  we  are  now  arrived  at  had 
in  store  for  the  interesting  and  amiable  Cowper.  Be- 
fore he  left  the  room  in  which  he  had  breakfasted,  he 
observed  a  Bible  lying  in  the  window-seat.  He  took  it 
up.  Except  in  a  single  instance,  and  that  two  months 
before,  he  had  not  ventured  to  open  one  since  the  early 
days  of  his  abode  at  St.  Alban's.  But  the  time  was 
now  come  when  he  might  do  it  to  purpose.  The  pro- 
fitable perusal  of  that  divine  book  had  been  provided 
for  in  the  most  effectual  manner,  by  the  restoration  at 
once  of  the  powers  of  his  understanding,  and  the  su- 
peradded gift  of  a  spiritual  discernment.  Under  these 
favourable  circumstances,  he  opened  the  sacred  vo» 
*  The  Task,  Book  V 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  21 

»ume  at  that  passage  of  the  epistle  to  the  Romans,  where 
the  apostle  says,  that  Jesus  Christ  is  "  set  forth  to  be 
a  propitiation  through  faith  in  his  blood,  to  declare 
his  righteousness  for  tlie  remission  of  sins  that  are  past, 
through  the  forbearance  of  God."  To  use  the  expres- 
sion employed  by  Cowper  himself,  in  a  written  docu- 
ment from  which  tins  portion  of  his  history  is  extract- 
ed, he  "  received  strength  to  believe  it ;"  to  see  the 
suitableness  of  the  atonement  of  his  own  necessity, 
and  to  embrace  the  gospel  with  gratitude  and  joy. 

That  the  happiest  portion  of  Cowper's  life  was  that 
on  which  he  had  now  entered,  appears  partly  from  his 
own  account  of  the  first  eighteen  months  of  the  suc- 
ceeding period,  and  partly  from  the  testimony  of  an 
endeared  friend,  in  a  letter  to  the  writer  of  this  brief 
memoir ;  a  friend,  who,  during  the  six  or  seven  years 
that  immediately  followed,  was  seldom  removed  from 
him  four  hours  in  the  day.  But  not  to  anticipate  what 
remains  to  be  offered,  the  devotional  spirit  of  his  late 
skilful  physician,  and  now  valuable  host,  Dr.  Cotton, 
was  so  completely  in  unison  v/ith  the  feelings  of  Cow- 
per, that  he  did  not  take  his  departure  from  St.  Aiban'a 
till  the  17th  of  June,  1765.  During  the  latter  part  of 
his  residence  there,  and  subsequent  to  the  Jiappy 
change  just  described,  he  exhibited  a  proof  of  the  in- 
teresting and  scriptural  character  of  those  views  of 
religion  which  he  had  embraced  in  the  composition  of 
two  hymns.  These  hymns  he  himself  styled  "  sped 
mens"  of  his  ''  first  christian  thoughts ;"  a  circum 
stance  which  will  greatly  enhance  their  value  in  the 
minds  of  those  to  whom  they  have  been  long  endeared 
by  their  own  intrinsick  excellence.  The  subject  of  the 
first  of  tliese  hymns  is  taken  from  Revelation,  xxi.  5. 
'  Behold,  I  make  all  things  new,'*  and  beghis,  "  How 
blest  thy  creature  is,  O  God."  The  second  under  the 
title  of  "  Retirement,"  begins  "  Far  from  the  world,  O 
Lord,  I  flee  " 


22  SKETCH  OF  THE 

Early  in  the  morning  of  the  day  above-mentioned, 
he  set  out  for  Cambridge,  on  his  way  to  Huntingdr^n, 
the  nearest  place  to  his  own  residence,  at  which  his 
brother  had  been  able  to  secure  him  an  asylum.  He 
adverts  with  peculiar  emphasis  to  the  sweet  commu- 
nion with  his  divine  Benefactor,  which  though  not 
alone,  he  enjoyed  in  silence  during  the  whole  of  this 
journey )  on  the  Saturday  succeeding  which,  ho  re 
paired  with  his  brother  to  his  destination  at  Hunting 
don. 

No  sooner  had  Mr.  John  Cowper  left  him,  and  re 
turned  to  Cambridge,  than,  lo  use  his  own  words, 
^'  finding  himself  surrounded  by  strangers,  in  a  place 
with  which  he  was  utterly  unacquainted,  his  spirits 
began  to  sink,  and  he  felt  like  a  traveller  in  the  midst 
of  an  inhospitable  desert,  without  a  friend  to  comfort, 
or  a  guide  to  direct  him.  He  walked  forth  towards  the 
close  of  the  day,  in  this  melancholy  frame  of  mind,  and 
having  wandered  a  mile  from  the  town,  he  was  enabled 
to  trust  in  Him  who  carcth  for  the  stranger,  and  to  rest 
assured  that  wherever  He  might  cast  his  lot,  the  God 
of  all  consolation  would  still  be  near  him. 

To  the  question  which  the  foregoing  pathetick  pas- 
sage will  naturally  give  rise  in  every  feeling  mind, 
namely,  why  was  not  Mr.  Cowper  advised,  instead  of 
hazarding  his  tender  and  convalescent  spirit  among  the 
strangers  of  Huntingdon,  to  recline  it  on  the  bosom  of 
his  friends  in  London  .''  it  is  incumbent  on  the  writer 
to  venture  a  reply.  It  is  presumed,  therefore,  that 
no  inducement  to  his  return  to  them,  which,  with  a 
view  to  their  mutual  satisfaction,  his  affectionate  rela- 
tives, and  most  intimate  friends  could  devise,  was  ei- 
ther omitted  on  their  part,  or  declined  without  reluc- 
tance on  liis.  But  in  the  cultivation  of  the  religious 
principles  which,  with  the  recovery  of  his  reason,  he 
had  lately  imbibed,  and  which  in  so  distinguished  a 
manner  it  had  pleased  God  to  bless,  to  the  re-esta« 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  23 

Misnment  of  his  peace,  he  had  an  interest  to  provide  for 
or  tt  mtxcA  higher  order.  This  it  was  that  inclined  him 
<^  &  lifw  of  seclusion  :  a  measure  in  the  adoption  of 
•a  ^ich,  though  in  ordinary  cases,  he  is  certainly  not 
to  he  quoterd  as  an  example :  yet  considering  the  ex- 
treme peculiarity  of  his  own,  it  seems  equally  certain 
thi\t  he  is  not  to  be  censured.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
indeed,  from  the  following  passage  of  his  poem  on  Re- 
tirement, that  had  his  mind  been  the  repository  of  less 
exquisitely  tender  sensibilities,  he  would  have  returned 
to  his  duties  injh^bner  Temple  : 


If;  God  alike  pervades 

And  fillsTIi^Wrid  of  traffick  and  the  shades, 
And  may  be  fear'd  amidst  the  busiest  scenes. 
Or  scorn'd  where  business  never  intervenes." 

Of  the  first  two  months  of  his  abode  in  Huntingdon, 
nothing  is  recorded,  except  that  he  gradually  mixed 
with  a  few  of  its  inhabitants,  and  corresponded  with 
some  of  his  early  friends.  But  at  the  end  of  that  time, 
as  he  was  one  daj^niing  out  of  church,  after  morning 
prayers,  at*whL6.5li^appears  to  have  been  a  constant 
attendant,  he  was  accosted  by  a  young  gentleman  of 
engaging  manners,  who  exceedingly  desired  to  culti- 
vate his  acquaintance.  This  pleasing  youth,  known 
afterwards  to  the  publick  as  the  Rev.  William  Caw- 
thorne  Unwin,  Rector  of  Stock,  in  Essex,  to  whom  the 
author  of  the  Task  inscribed  his  poem  of  Tirocinium, 
was  so  intent  upon  accomplishing  the  object  of  his 
wishes,  that  when  he  took  leave  of  the  interesting 
stranger,  after  sharing  his  walk  under  a  row  of  trees, 
he  had  obtained  his  permission  to  drink  tea  with  him 
that  day. 

This  was  the  origin  of  the  introduction  of  Cowper 
to  the  family  of  the  Rev.  Morley  Unwin,  consisting  of 
himself,  his  wife,  the  son  already  named,  and  a  daugh* 


24  SKETCH  OF  THE 

ter  an  event,  which,  when  viewed  in  connexion  wit:» 
his  remaining  years,  will  scarcely  yield,  in  importance, 
to  any  feature  of  his  life.  Concerning  these  engaging 
persons,  whose  general  habits  of  life,  and  especially 
whose  piety  rendered  them  the  very  associated  that 
Cowper  wanted,  he  thus  expresses  himself  in  a  letter, 
written  two  months  after,  to  one  of  his  earliest  and 
warmest  friends  ;*  "  Now  I  know  them,  I  wonder  that 
I  liked  Huntingdon  so  well  before  I  knew  them,  and  am 
apt  to  think  I  should  find  every  place  disagreeable  that 
had  not  an  Unwin  belonging  to  i^^^w 

The  house  which  Mr.  Unwin^^^^BjBHfl|^  large 
and  convenient  dwelling  in  the  jBJ^H^pcKn  which 
he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  receiving  a  few  domestick 
pupils  to  prepare  them  for  the  University.  At  the  di- 
vision of  the  October  Term,  one  of  these  students  be- 
ing called  to  Cambridge,  it  was  proposed  that  the  soli- 
tary lodging  which  Cowper  occupied  should  be  exchang- 
ed for  the  possession  of  the  vacant  place.  On  the  11th 
of  November,  therefore,  in  the  same  year,  he  com- 
menced his  residence  in  this  agreeable  family.  But 
the  calamitous  death  of  Mr.  Unwm^by  a  fall  from  his 
horse,  as  he  was  going  to  his  church^n  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing, the  July  twelvemonth  following,  proved  the  signal 
of  a  further  removal  to  Cowper,  who,  by  a  series  of 
providential  incidents,  was  conducted  with  the  family 
of  liis  deceased  friend  to  the  town  of  Olney,  in  Buck- 
inghamshire, on  the  14th  of  October  1767.  The  in- 
strument whom  it  pleased  God  principally  to  employ 
in  bringing  about  this  important  event,  was  the  Rev. 
John  Newton,  then  curate  of  that  parish,  and  after- 
wards rector  of  St.  Mary  Woolnoth  in  London  :  a  most 
exemplary  divine,  indefatigable  in  the  discharge  of  his 
ministerial  duties ;  in  which,  so  far  as  was  consistent 
with  the  province  of  a  layman,  it  became  the  happi' 
ne^s  of  Cowper  to  strengthen  his  hands. 
•  Joseph  Hill,  Esq. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  25 

Great  was  the  value  which  Cowper  set  on  the  friend- 
chip  and  intercourse  which  for  some  years  he  had  the 
privilege  of  enjoying  with  the  estimable  author  of  Car- 
diphonia.  This  agpears  by  the  following  passage  in  one 
of  his  letters  to  that  venerable  pastor  ;  "  The  honour 
of  your  preface,  prefixed  to  my  poems,  will  be  on  my 
side  ;  for  surely  to  be  known  as  the  friend  of  a  much 
favoured  'minister  of  God's  word,  is  a  more  illustrious 
distinction  in  reality  than  to  have  the  friendship  of 
any  poet  in  the  world  to  boast  of"  A  correspondent 
testimony  of  the  estimation  in  which  our  poet  was  held 
by  his  friend  JXMBlltvton  is  clearly  deducible  from 
the  introS'&WWHWWft  of  the  preceding  sentence  ; 
and  is  abundarftlJpRirnished  in  the  preface  itself. 

A  very  interesting  part  of  the  connexion  thus  hap- 
pily established  between  Mr.  Cowper  and  Mr.  Newton, 
was  afterwards  brought  to  light  in  the  publication  of 
the  Olney  Hymns,  which  was  intended  as  a  monument 
of  the  endeared  and  joint  labours  of  these  exemplary 
christians.  To  this  collection  Mr.  Cowper  contributed 
sixty-eight  compositions. 

From  the  commencement  of  his  residence  at  Olney 
till  January,  1773,  a  period  of  five  years  and  a  quarter, 
it  does  not  appear  that  there  was  any  material  inter- 
ruption either  of  the  health  or  religious  comfort  of  this 
tixcellent  man.  His  feeKngs,  however,  must  have  re- 
ceived a  severe  shock  in  February,  1770,  when  he  was 
twice  summoned  to  Cambridge  by  the  illness  of  his  be 
loved  brother,  which  terminated  fatally  on  the  20th  of 
the  following  month.  How  far  this  afflictive  event 
might  conduce  to  such  a  melancholy  catastrophe,  it  is 
impossible  to  judge  ;  but  certain  it  is,  that  at  this  period 
a  renewed  attack  of  hi*-,  former  hypochondriacal  com- 
plaint took  place.  It,  is  remarkable  that  the  prevailing 
distortion  of  his  ?iidicted  imagination  became  then  not 
only  inconsistent  with  the  dictates  of  right  reason,  but 
was  entirely  at  variance  with  every  distinguishing 
characteristick  of  that  religion  which  had  so  long  prov 

Vol.  til  3 


26  SKETCH  OF  THE 

ed  the  incitement  to  his  useful  labours,  and  th  t  source 
of  his  mental  consolations  Indeed,  so  powerful  and 
so  singular  was  the  effect  produced  on  his  mind  by  the 
influence  of  the  malady,  that  while  for  many  subse- 
quent years  it  admitted  of  his  exhibiting  the  most  mas- 
terly and  delightful  display  of  poetical,  epistelary,  and 
conversational  abilit)^,  on  the  greatest  variety  of  sub- 
jects, it  constrained  him  from  that  period,  both  in  hia 
conversation  and  letters,  studiously  to  abstain  from 
every  allusion  of  a  religious  nature.  Yet  no  one  could 
doubt  that  the  hand  and  heart  fromwhich,  even  under 
so  mysterious  a  dispensation,^SLKEymuisite  descrip- 
tions of  sacred  truth  and  feeling 'SffWwards  proceeded, 
must  have  been  long  and  faithfully  aevoted  to  his  God 
and  Father.  The  testimonies  of  his  real  piety  were 
manifested  to  others,  when  least  apparent  to  himself 
But  where  it  pleased  God  to  throw  a  veil  over  the  men- 
tal and  spiritual  consistency  of  this  excellent  and 
afflicted  man,  it  would  ill  become  us  rudely  to  invade 
the   divine  prerogative  by  attempting  to  withdraw  it. 

Under  the  grievous  visitation  above-mentioned,  Mrs. 
Unwin,  whom  he  had  professed  to  love  as  a  mother, 
was  as  a  guardian  angel  to  this  interesting  sufferer. 
Day  and  night  she  watched  over  him.  Inestimable 
likewise  was  the  friendship  of  Mr.  Newton :  "  Next  to 
the  duties  of  my  ministry,"  said  that  venerable  pastor, 
in  a  letter  to  the  author  of  this  memoir,  more  than 
twenty  years  aflerwards,  "  it  was  the  business  of  my 
life  to  attend  him." 

For  more  than  a  twelvemonth  subsequent  to  this  at- 
tack, Cowpcr  seems  to  have  been  totally  overwhelmed 
by  the  vehemence  of  his  disorder.  But  in  March,  1774, 
he  was  so  far  enabled  to  struggle  with  it,  as  to  seek 
amusement  in  the  taming  his  three  hares,  and  in  the 
construction  of  boxes  for  them  to  dwell  in.  From  me- 
chanical amusements  he  proceeded  to  epistolary  em- 
ployment, a  specimen  of  which,  addressed  to  his  friend 
Mr.  Unwin  who  had  been  some  years  settled  at  Stock, 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  27 

in  Essex,  iii  the  summer  of  1778,  shows  that  he  had, 
hi  a  great  measure,  recovered  liis  admirable  faculties. 

In  1779  he  accompanied  Mrs.  Unwin  in  a  post-chaise 
to  view  the  gardens  of  Gaylmrst ;  an  excursion  of 
which  he  informs  her  son  in  a  playful  letter. 

In  the  autumn  of  this  year  we  find  him  reading  the 
Biography  of  Johnson,  and,  with  the  exception  of  what 
ho  terms  his  "  unmerciful  treatment  of  Milton,"  ex- 
pressing  himself  "  well  entertained"  with  it. 

One  of  his  earliest  amusements,  in  1780,  was  the  com- 
position of  the  beautiful  fable  of  "  The  Nightingale 
and  the  Glow-worm ;"  after  which  he  betook  hijpself 
to  thjB  drawing  of  RthSscapes  :  an  employment  of  which 
he  grew  passionately  fond,  though  he  had  never  been 
insti^cted  in  the  art.  This  attachment  to  the  pencil 
was  particularly  seasonable,  as  in  the  midst  of  it  he 
lost  his  friend  Mr.  Newton,  who  was  called  to  the 
charge  of  St.  Mary  Woolnoth,  in  Ijondon.  "With  a 
provident  care,  however,  for  his  future  welfare,  this 
excellent  man  obtained  his  permission  to  introduce  to 
Iiim  the  Rev.  William  Bull,  of  Newport  Pagnell,  who 
from  tliat  time  regularly  visited  him  once  a  fortnight : 
and  whom  Cowper  afterwards  described  to  his  friend 
Unwin,  as  "  a  man  of  letters  and  of  genius,  master  of  a 
fine  imagination,  or  rather  not  master  of  it ;"  who 
could  be  "  lively  without  levity,  and  pensive  without 
dejection."  As  the  year  advanced,  Hume's  History, 
and  the  Biographia  Britannica  engaged  his  attention, 
though  the  amusements  of  the  garden  were  his  chief 
resource,  and  had  banished  drawing  altogether.  These, 
with  the  frequent  exercise  of  his  epistolary  talent,  and 
the  occasional  production  of  a  minor  piece  of  poetry, 
in  the  composition  of  which  the  entertainment  of  him- 
self and  his  friends  was  his  only  aim,  led  him  to  the 
important  month  of  December,  in  this  year,  when  he 
was  to  sit  down  with  the  secret  intention  of  writing 
for  the  publick  ;  an  intention,  however,  which  his  ex- 
treme humility  took  care  to  couple  in  his  mind  with 


i  28  SKETCH  OF  THE 

Ij  this  proviso,  that  a  bookseller   could  he   found  who 

1 1  would  run  the  risk  of  publishing  his  productions. 

1 1  Between  that  time  and  March,  1781,  the  four  first  of 

his  larger  poems  were  completed  ;  namely,  Table  Talk, 
The  Progress  of  Errour,  Truth,  and  Expostulation 
These,  together  with  the  small  pieces  contained  in  the 
earliest  edition  of  that  volume,  were  sent  to  the  press 
m  the  following  May  :  Mr.  Johnson,  of  St.  Paul's 
Church-yard,  who  had  been  recommended  to  the  poet 
by  Mr.  Newton,  having,  as  he  informed  his  friend  at 
Stock,  "  heroically  set  all  peradventures  at  defiance," 
as  to  the  expense  of  printing,  ^.'^^nj^aken  the  wfiole 
charge  upon  himself."  '•\» 

The  operation  of  the  press,  however,  had  scal^ly 
commenced,  when  it  was  suggested  to  the  author,*that 
the  season  of  publication  being  so  far  elapsed,  it  would 
be  adviseable  to  postpone  the  appearance  of  his  book 
till  the  ensuing  winter.  This  delay  was  productive  of 
two  advantages;  it  enabled  him  to  correct  the  press 
himself,  and  nearly  to  double  the  quantity  of  the  pro- 
iected  volume  ;  to  which,  by  the  24th  of  June,  he  had 
added  the  poem  of  Hope  ;  by  the  12th  of  July,  that 
of  Charity,  and  by  the  19th  of  October,  those  of  Con  • 
versation  and  Retirement. 

Whilst  the  poet  was  occupied  in  the  extension  of  his 
work,  there  arrived  at  the  neighbouring  village  of  Clif- 
ton, a  lady  who  was,  in  due  time,  to  make  a  most 
agreeable  addition  to  his  society,  and  to  whom  tlie  pub- 
lick  were  afterwards  indebted  for  the  first  suggestion  of 
the  ^ofa,  as  they  were  also  to  Mrs.  Unwin  for  that  of 
the  Progress  of  Errour,  as  a  subject  for  Cowper's  muse. 
The  writer  alludes  to  Lady  Austen,  the  widow  of  Sir 
Robert  Austen,  Baronet,  whose  first  introduction  to  the 
poet  and  his  friends  occurred  in  the  summer  of  1781  ; 
a  memorable  era  in  the  life  of  Cowper.  The  limits, 
however,  of  a  contracted  narrative,  such  as  this  pro- 
fesses to  be,  will  only  allow  me  here  to  introduce  tlie 
brief  character  of  this  accomplished  lady,  which  Cow- 


THE  LIFE  OF  COWPER.  29 

per  despatched  to  his  friend  Unwin,  in  the  month  of 
August  of  this  year  ;  namely,  "  that  she  had  seen  much 
of  the  world,  understood  it  well,  had  high  spirits,  a 
lively  fancy,  and  great  readiness  of  conversation." 
The  frequent  visits  of  this  pleasing  associate  to  her 
new  acauaintance  at  Olney,  gave  rise  to  that  familiar 
epistle  in  rhyme,  which  the  poet  addressed  to  her  on 
her  return  to  London ;  it  is  dated  December  17,  1781. 
The  last  month  of  that  year,  and  the  two  first  of  the 
year  following,  appear  to  have  been  employed  by 
Cowper  in  correcting  the  press,  in  epistolary  corre- 
spondence, and  in  desultory  reading. 

The  year  1782  '^as  also  an  eventful  period  in  the  life 
of  the  poet.  In  March  his  first  volume  issued  from 
the  press.  In  the  summer  Mr.  Bull  engaged  him  in  the 
translation  of  Madam  Guion  ;  and  by  means  of  a  small 
portable  printing-press,  given  him  by  Lady  Austen, 
who  had  returned  from  London  to  Clifton,  he  became 
a  printer  as  well  as  a  writer  of  poetry.  In  October  of 
the  same  year,  the  pleasant  poem  of  John  Gilpin  sprang 
up,  like  a  mushroom,  in  a  night.  The  story  on  which 
it  is  founded,  having  been  related  to  him  by  Lady 
Austen,  in  one  of  their  evening  parties,  it  was  versi- 
fied in  bed,  and  presented  to  her  the  next  morning  in 
the  shape  of  a  ballad.  Before  the  close  of  the  year 
Lady  Austen  wels  settled  in  the  parsonage  at  Olney. 

The  consequence  of  this  latter  arrangement  was  a 
more  frequent  intercourse  between  the  lady  and  her 
friends.  Mr.  Unwin,  indeed,  is  informed,  in  a  letter 
which  he  received  from  Mr.  Cowper  in  January,  1783, 
that  "  they  passed  their  days  alternately  at  each  other's 
chateau."  This  eventually  led  to  the  publication  of 
the  Task  Lady  Austen,  as  an  admirer  of  Milton,  was 
fond  of  blank  verse.  She  wished  to  engage  C^owper  in 
that  species  of  composition.  For  a  long  time  he  de 
clinod  it.  The  lady,  however,  persevered,  till,  in  June 
or  July  of  the  same  year,  he  promised  to  write  if  she 
3  ' 


30  SKETCH  OF  THE 

would  furnish  the  subject.  "  O  !"  she  replied,  "  you 
can  never  be  in  want  of  a  subject ;  you  can  write  upon 
any : — write  upon  this  sofa  !"  "  The  poet/'  says  Mr. 
Hayley,  "  obeyed  her  command,  and  from  the  lively 
repartee  of  familiar  conversation  arose  a  poem  of  many 
thousand  verses,  unexampled  perhaps  both  in  its  origin 
and  excellence  I  A  poem  of  such  infinite  variety,  that 
it  seems  to  include  every  subject,  and  every  style,  with- 
out any  dissonance  or  disorder ;  and  to  have  flowed 
without  effort,  from  inspired  philanthropy,  eager  to 
impress  upon  the  hearts  of  all  readers  whatever  may 
lead  them  most  happily  to  the  full  ^enjoyment  of  hu 
man  life,  and  to  the  final  attainment  of  heaven." 

The  progress  of  this  enchanting  performance  appears 
to  have  been  this.  The  first  four  books,  and  part  of 
the  fifth,  were  written  by  the  22d  of  February,  1784  ; 
the  final  verses  of  the  poem  in  September  following  ; 
and  in  the  beginning  of  October  the  work  was  sent  to 
the  press.  The  arrangements  with  the  bookseller  were 
entrusted  to  Mr.  Unwin.  During  the  period  of  its 
production,  the  evenings  of  the  poet  appear  to  have 
been  constantly  devoted  to  a  course  of  diversified  read- 
ing to  the  ladies.  Such  as  Hawkesworth's  Voyages, 
L'Estrange's  Josephus,  Johnson's  Prefaces,  The  The- 
ological Miscellany,  Beattie's  and  Blair's  Lectures, 
the  "  Folio  of  four  Pages,"  and  the  Circumnavigations 
of  Cook.  This  may  in  some  measure  account  for  the 
comparatively  slow  execution  of  the  latter  part  of  the 
work,  and  indeed  of  the  whole,  with  reference  to  the 
former  volume.  But  the  following  passage  of  a  letter 
to  Mr.  Newton,  dated  October  30,  1784,  will  explain 
it  more  fully.  "  I  mentioned  it  not  sooner,"  namely, 
that  he  was  engaged  in  the  work,  "  because,  almost 
to  the  last,  I  was  doubtful  whether  I  should  ever  bring 
it  to  a  conclusion,  working  often  in  such  distress  of 
mind,  as  while  it  spurred  me  to  the  work,  at  the  same 
time  threatened  to  disqualify  me  for  it '      After  it  was 


LIFE  Ol   COWPER.  31 

sent  to  the  press,  he  added  the  poem  of  Tirocinium, 
two  hundred  hnes  of  which  were  written  in  1782,  and 
the  remainder  in  October  and  November,  1784. 

On  the  21st  of  this  month  he  began  his  translation 
of  Homer,  which,  together  with  the  completion  of  Tho 
Task,  proves  the  year  1784  to  have  been  an  active 
period  in  the  life  of  Cowper.  A  no  less  striking  occur- 
rence of  that  year  was  the  termination  of  his  inter- 
course with  Lady  Austen.  For  a  just  statement  of 
that  sudden  event,  which,  while  it  by  no  means  low- 
ered the  character  of  either  of  the  ladies,  exceedingly 
elevated  that  of  Cowper,  the  reader  is  referred  to  tho 
biography  of  Hayley. 

The  year  1785  was  marked  by  the  publication  of  the 
secci.d  volume  of  his  poems  in  June  or  July,  contain- 
ing The  Task,  Tirocinium,  The  Epistle  to  Joseph  Hill, 
Esq.  and  the  diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin ;  also, 
by  the  production  of  niany  excellent  letters,  among 
which  those  to  his  cousin,  lady  Hesketh,  who  had  late- 
ly returned  from  a  residence  in  Italy,  and  renewed  her 
correspondence  with  him  on  the  appearance  of  his 
second  volume,  are  peculiarly  interesting.  With  the 
exception  of  a  few  of  his  smaller  pieces,  his  poetical 
employment  this  year  was  confined  to  the  translation 
of  Homer. 

The  same  may  be  said  of  the  succeeding  year,  which, 
however,  was  distinguished  by  three  remarkable  oc- 
currences :  the  arrival  of  lady  Hesketh,  at  Olndy,  in 
June  ,:  Cowper's  removal  to  the  Lodge  in  the  adjoining 
village  of  Weston  Underwood,  in  November;  and  the 
death  of  Mr.  Unwin,  in  the  same  month.  To  the  first 
<5f  these  events  he  thus  alludes  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Hill , 
"  My  dear  cousin's  arrival  here,  as  it  could  not  fail  to 
do,  made  us  happier  than  we  ever  were  at  Olney.  Her 
great  kindness  in  giving  us  her  company  is  a  cordial 
that  I  shall  feel  the  effect  of,  not  only  while  she  is  here, 
but  while  I  live ;"  to  the  second,  thus,  in  a  letter  to 
the  same  friend,  '^  I  find  myself  here  situated  exactly 


32  SKETCH  OF  THE 

to  my  mind.  Weston  is  one  of  the  prettiest  villages 
in  England,  and  the  walks  about  it,  at  all  seasons  of  the 
year,  delightful.  I  know  that  you  will  rejoice  wiin  mo 
in  the  change  that  we  have  made,  and  for  which  I  am 
altogether  indebted  to  lady  Hesketh  ;"  and  to  the  third, 
tlius,  in  concluding  a  letter  to  that  Ij'dy,  "  So  farewell 
my  friend  Unwin  !  The  first  man  for  whom  I  conceiv- 
ed a  friendship  after  my  removal  from  St.  Alban's,  and 
for  whom  I  cannot  but  still  feel  a  friendship,  though  I 
shall  see  thee  with  these  eyes  no  more." 

Early  in  January,  1787,  he  was  attacked  with  a  ner- 
vous fever,  which  obliged  him  to  discontinue  his  poeti- 
cal efforts  till  the  October  following.  A  few  days  after 
the  commencement  of  this  indisposition,  he  received  a 
visit  from  a  stranger,  which  he  thus  notices  in  a  letter 
to  lady  Hesketh:  *' A  young  gentleman  called  here 
yesterday,  who  came  six  miles  out  of  his  way  to  see 
me.  He  was  on  a  journey  to  London  from  Glasgow, 
having  just  left  the  University  there.  He  came,  I  sup- 
pose, partly  to  satisfy  his.  own  curiosity,  but  chiefly, 
as  it  seemed,  to  bring  me  the  thanks  of  some  of  the 
Scotch  Professors  for  my  two  volumes.  His  name  is 
Rose,  an  Englishman.  Your  spirits  being  good,  you 
will  derive  more  pleasure  from  this  incident  than  I  can 
at  present,  therefore  I  send  it."  This  interesting  and 
accomplished  character  was  afterwards  of  singular  use 
to  Cowper,  during  a  friendship  which  originated  in  the 
above  visit,  and  which  was  terminated  only  by  the 
death  of  the  poet.  As  an  early  instance  of  this  utility, 
and  that  with  reference  to  the  paramount  wants  of  the 
mind,  he  introduced  his  new  acquaintance  to  the  poetry 
of  Burns,  with  which  he  was  so  much  pleased  as  to  read 
it  twice.  It  was  succeeded  in  the  office  of  relieving  his 
depressed  spirits  by  the  Latin  Argenis  of  Barclay  ',  The 
Travels  of  Savary  into  Egypt ;  Memoirs  du  Baron  de 
Tott ;  Fenn's  Original  Letters ;  The  Letters  of  Fre- 
derick of  Bohemia  ;  Merroirs  of  d'Henri  de  Lorraine, 
Due  de  Guise ;  and  The  Letters  of  his  young  relative 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  33 

Spencer  Madan,  to  Priestley.  In  allusion  to  this  inter- 
val of  cessation  from  the  labours  of  the  pen,  he  says  in 
a  letter  to  Mr.  R  3se,  "  When  I  cannot  walk,  I  read, 
and  read  perhaps  more  than  is  good  for  me.  But  I  can- 
not be  idle.  The  only  mercy  that  I  show  myself  in 
this  respect  is,  that  I  read  nothing  that  requires  much 
closeness  of  application."  Conversing,  however,  with 
men  and  things,  through  the  medium  of  books,  was  not 
his  only  resource  in  this  season  of  illness.  He  had  an 
infinitely  better  medicine  of  this  kind,  in  the  society 
of  his  valuable  friends  at  the  Hall,  and  the  many  pleas- 
ing acquaintances  to  which  their  hospitality  introduc- 
ed him.  Indeed  the  kindness  of  Sir  John  and  lady 
Throckmorton,  always  a  cordial  to  the  spirits  of  Cow- 
per  from  the  time  he  knew  them,  was  especially  such 
under  his  present  circumstances.  As  a  proof  of  its 
happy  influence  on  the  mind  of  the  poet,  he  was  ena- 
bled in  the  autumn  to  resume  his  translation  of  Homer, 
which,  with  the  renewal  of  his  admirable  letters  to 
several  friends,  and  the  production  of  his  first  mortua- 
ry verses  for  the  clerk  of  Northampton,  comprised  all 
his  literary  performances  to  the  conclusion  of  the  year. 

In  1788  his  venerable  uncle,  Ashley  Cowper,  Esq, 
the  father  of  lady  Hesketh,  died  at  the  age  of  eighty- 
seven  ;  an  event  which  he  pathetically  alludes  to  in 
several  of  the  letters  of  this  period,  and  the  ill  effect 
of  which  on  his  spirits  was  happily  prevented  by  the 
successive  visits  at  the  lodge  of  the  Rev.  Matthew 
Powley  and  his  amiable  partner,  the  daughter  of  Mrs. 
Unwin ;  his  old  friends  the  Newtons,  Mr.  Rose,  and 
lady  Hesketh. 

The  reappearance  at  the  Lodge  of  the  two  last  men- 
tioned visiters  is  recorded  in  his  letters  of  1789,  which 
was  also  devoted  to  Homer  and  the  muse. 

In  January,  1790,  the  writer  of  this  sketch,  who  had 
hitherto  enjoyed  no  personal  intercourse  with  his  rela- 
tive, but  for  whom,  ten  years  after,  was  reserved  the 
melancholy  office  of  closing  his  eyes,  introduced  him- 


34  SKETCH  OF  THE 

self  to  the  poet  as  the  grandson  of  his  motherV  bro« 
ther,  thfc  Rev.  Roger  Donne,  late  rector  of  CatHoM, 
in  Norfolk.  His  total  ignorance  of  what  had  befallen 
tliat  branch  of  his  family,  during  the  twenty -seven 
years  of  his  retirement  from  the  world,  would  of  itseL 
have  secured  his  attention  to  a  visiter  so  circumstanc 
ed,  even  if  his  heart  had  been  a  stranger  to  the  hospita- 
ble virtues.  But  as  no  human  bosom  was  ever  more 
under  the  influence  of  those  blessed  qualities  than 
Cowper's,  the  reception  which  his  kinsman  met  with 
was  peculiarly  pleasing.  The  consequence  was  a  re- 
petition of  his  visit  in  the  same  year,  and  indeed  the 
passing  of  the  chief  of  his  academical  recesses  at  the 
Lodge,  and  his  clerical  leisure  afterwards,  till,  by  the 
appointment  of  Providence,  he  transplanted  this  inter- 
esting man  with  his  enfeebled  companion  into  Nor- 
folk, as  will  appear  in  the  sequel  of  these  pages. 

Perceiving  that  his  new  and  valuable  acquaintance 
dwelt  witli  great  pleasure  on  the  memory  of  his  mother, 
tlio  kinsman  of  Cowper,  on  his  return  home,  was  espe- 
cially careful  to  despatch  to  him  her  picture,  as  a  pre- 
sent from  his  cousin,  Mrs.  Bodham.  To  the  arrival  of  this 
portrait,  an  original  in  oils,  by  Heins,  he  thus  adverts 
in  a  letter  to  that  lady,  dated  February  27, 1790  ;  "  The 
world  could  not  have  furnished  you  with  a  present  so 
acceptable  to  me  as  the  picture  which  you  have  so 
kindly  sent  me.  I  received  it  the  night  before  last,  and 
viewed  it  with  a  trepidation  of  nerves  and  spirits  some- 
what akin  to  what  I  should  have  felt  had  the  dear  origi- 
nal presented  herself  to  my  embraces.  I  kissed  it,  and 
liung  it  where  it  is  the  last  object  that  I  see  at  niglit. 
and  of  course  the  first  on  which  I  open  my  eyes  in  the 
morning."  The  receipt  of  this  picture  gave  rise  to 
the  Monody  so  justly  a  favourite  with  the  public,  when 
it^ppeared  in  the  later  editions  of  his  poems. 

On  the  25th  of  August,  in  tJiis  year,  he  completed  his 
translation  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  of  Homer  into 
blank  verse,  which  he  had  begun  on  the  21st  of  Novem- 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  ^^^  3c 
ber,  1784.  During  eight  months  of  this  time  he  was 
liindered  by  indisposition,  so  that  he  was  occupied  in 
the  work,  on  the  whole,  five  years  and  one  month.  On 
the  8th  of  September  the  writer  of  this  narrative  had 
the  gratification  to  convey  it  to  St.  Paul's  Church-yard, 
with  a  view  to  its  consignment  to  the  press  ;  during  its 
continuance  in  which,  the  translator  gave  the  work  a 
second  revisal.  The  Iliad  was  dedicated  to  his  young 
noble  relative,  earl  Cowper ;  and  the  Odyssey  to  the 
illustrious  lady  of  whom  he  thus  writes  to  his  kinsman 
of  Norfolk,  on  the  28th  of  November,  1790 :  "  We  had 
a  visit  on  Monday  from  one  of  the  first  women  in  the 
world  ;  in  point  of  character,  I  mean,  and  accomplish 
ments,  the  dowager  lady  Spencer.  I  may  receive, 
perhaps,  some  honours  hereafter,  should  my  transla 
tion  speed  according  to  my  wishes  and  the  pains  I 
have  taken  with  it ;  but  shall  never  receive  any  that  I 
shall  esteem  so  highly.  She  is  indeed  worthy  to  whom 
I  should  dedicate ;  and  may  but  my  Odyssey  prove  as 
worthy  of  her,  I  shall  have  nothing  to  fear  from  tlie 
critics."  Lady  Hesketh  also  paid  him  this  year  her 
usual  visit,  which  extended  into  the  next. 

The  year  1791  was  marked  by  the  completion  of 
the  second  revisal  of  his  Homer,  on  the  4th  of  March  ) 
and  by  the  return  of  the  last  proof-sheet  of  that  work 
to  the  publisher  on  the  12th  of  June.  Also  by  the 
commencement  of  his  correspondence  with  the  poet 
Hurdis  ;  the  suggestion  of  the  Four  Ages,  Infancy, 
Youth,  Manhood,  and  Old  Age,  as  a  subject  for  his 
muse,  by  his  very  pleasing  and  well  informed  clerical 
neighbour,  Mr.  Buchanan  of  Ravenstone  ;  and  the  sea- 
sonable visit  of  three  of  his  Norfolk  relations,  Mrs. 
Balls,  Miss  Johnson,  and  her  brother,  in  the  vacant 
period  between  the  conclusion  of  his  employment  as 
translator  of  Homer,  and  the  beginning  c^  a  new  litera- 
ry engagement,  which  he  thus  announces  to  Mr.  Rose, 
on  the  14tli  of  September  of  this  year  :  "  A  Milton, 
that  is  to  jival,  and,  if  possiY)le,  to  exceed  in  splendour 


3t  SKETCH  OF  THE 

Boydell's  Shakspeare,  is  in  contemplation,  and  I  am 
in  the  editor's  office,  Fuseli  is  the  painter.  My  business 
will  be  to  select  notes  from  others,  and  to  write  origi- 
iia]  notes ;  to  translate  the  Latin  and  Italian  poems, 
and  to  give  a  correct  text."  He  addressed  himself  to 
the  work  with  diligence,  and  by  tlie^end  of  the  yeai 
had  advanced  to  the  Epitaphium  Damonis. 

In  the  early  part  of  1792  he  had  to  encounter  the  loss 
of  his  agreeable  associates  at  Weston-hall,  the  death  of 
Sir  Robert  Throckmorton  having  accasioned  their  re- 
moval to  a  seat  in  Oxfordshire  ;  an  event  which  he 
tenderly  alludes  to  in  concluding  a  letter  to  the  poet 
Hurdis.  His  engagement  with  Milton,  the  society  of 
lady  Hesketh,  and  of  his  friend  Rose,  but  more  espe- 
cially the  consideration  of  who  was  to  succeed  his  old 
neighbours  in  the  hospitable  mansion,  namely,  the  next 
brother  of  the  Baronet,*  who  was  on  the  eve  of  mar- 
riage with  Catharina,  the  favourite  of  the  poet,  sup- 
ported his  spirits  at  this  trying  period. 

The  next  remarkable  feature  in  the  history  of  Cow- 
per,  is  the  commencement  of  his  correspondence  with 
Mr.  Hayley.  The  limits  of  this  narative  will  not  ad- 
mit of  a  detail  of  the  singular  circumstances  which 
gave  rise  to  it,  but  it  was  scarcely  entered  upon,  before, 
in  writing  to  lady  Hesketh,  Cowper  says  of  his  new 
epistolary  acquaintance,  "  I  account  him  the  chief  ac- 
quisition that  my  own  verse  has  ever  procured  me."  In 
the  following  May,  a  personal  interview  took  place  be- 
tween the  two  poets,  thus  noticed  by  Cowper  in  writ- 
ing to  his  kinsman  of  Norfolk :  "  Mr.  Hayley  is  here 
on  a  visit.  We  have  formed  a  friendship  that  I  trust 
will  last  for  life."  A  few  days  after,  Mrs.  Unwin  was 
struck  with  the  palsy,  which  deprived  her  of  the  pow- 
er of  articulation,  and  the  use  of  her  right  hand  and 
arm.  Under  the  pressure  of  this  domestick  affliction, 
he  thus  writes  to  Lady  Hesketh ;  "  It  has  happened 

*  George  Courleiiay  Throckmorlon,  Esq.  now  Mr.  Courte- 
nay. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  37 

well,  th|Lt  of  all  men  living,  the  man  most  qualified  to 
assist  and  comfort  me,  is  here,  though  till  within  these 
few  days  I  never  saw  him,  and  a  few  weeks  since  had 
no  expectation  that  I  ever  should.  You  have  already 
guessed  that  I  mean  Hayley  !" 

Early  in  June,  Mr.  Kayley  left  the  Lodge,  having 
obtained  a  promise  from  its  inhabitants,  that  if  it  should 
please  God  to  continue  the  convalescent  symptoms  of 
Mrs.  Unwin,  which  had  begun  to  be  exhibited,  they 
would  visit  Eartham  in  the  course  of  the  summer. 
The  new  guest  of  Cowper  was  succeeded  by  the  wri- 
ter of  this  sketch,  who,  without  consulting  the  poet, 
ventured  to  introduce  to  him  Abbott  the  Painter,  one 
of  the  most  successful  artists  of  that  period,  in  secur- 
ing to  a  portrait  the  likeness  of  its  original.  In  allu- 
sion to  the  fidelity  of  the  copy  he  was  then  producing, 
Cowper  playfully  says,  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Hayley, 

Abbott  is  painting  me  so  true, 
That  (trust  me)  you  would  stare, 

And  hardly  know  at  the  first  view, 
If  I  were  here,  or  there. 

In  the  beginning  of  August,  the  party  set  out  on  their 
way  to  Eartham,  where  they  arrived  on  the  evening 
of  the  third  day,  and  where  the  most  cordial  and  af- 
fectionate reception  that  it  was  possible  for  guests  to 
meet  with,  awaited  them  from  the  owner  of  that  ele- 
gant villa.  This  had  a  happy  effect  upon  the  spirits 
of  Cowper,  which  had  been  in  some  measure  depress- 
ed by  the  romantick  moonlight  scenery  of  the  Sussex 
hills,  over  which  he  had  just  passed,  and  whose  bold 
and  striking  outline  so  far  surpassing  any  images  of 
the  kind  with  which  the  last  thirty  years  had  present- 
ed him,  .lurried  back  his  recollection  to  those  times 
when  he  had  scarcely  known  what  trouble  was. 

In  this  delightful  retreat  he  remained  till  about  the 
middle  of  the  following  month,  his  kind  host  doing 

VuL.  III.  4 


S3  SKETCH  OF  THE 

every  thing  that  even  the  purest  fraternal  friendship 
could  dictate  for  the  comfort  of  the  poet  and  his  in- 
firm companion ;  who  were  both  benefited  by  his  be* 
nevolent  exertions,  the  one  considerably  in  spirits, 
and  the  other  somewhat  in  health.  During  the  visit 
of  Covvper  to  Eartham,  a  fine  head  of  him  in  crayon 
was  executed  by  Romney,  who  joined  the  party,  as 
did  also  that  ingenious  novelist  and  pleasing  poetess 
Charlotte  Smith,  the  "  friendly  Carwardine,"  of 
Earl's  Colne  Priory,  and  the  author  of  "  The  Village 
Curate,"  soon  after  the  arrival  of  the  guests  from 
Weston.  Their  society  was  also  enlivened  by  the  en- 
dearing attentions  of  the  amiable  and  accomplished 
youth,  for  whose  future  enjoyment,  after  a  life  of  pro- 
fessional labour,  the  scenery  of  Eartham  had  been  so 
fondly  embellished  by  an  affectionate  parent,  but  to 
whom  Providence  allotted  an  early  grave  in  the  very 
same  year  and  month  in  which  the  illustrious  visiter 
of  his  beloved  father  was  consigned  to  the  tomb. 

The  literary  engagements  of  Cowper  while  he  re- 
sided at  Eartham,  are  thus  noticed  by  his  faithful  bi- 
ographer :  "  The  morning  hours,  that  we  cculd  bestow 
upon  books,  were  chiefly  devoted  to  a  complete  re- 
visal  and  correction  of  all  the  translations  which  my 
friend  had  finished,  from  the  Latin  and  Italian  poetry 
of  Milton :  and  we  generally  amused  ourselves  after 
dinner  in  forming  together  a  rapid  metrical  version 
of  Andreini's  Adamo  But  the  constant  care  which 
the  delicate  health  of  Mrs.  Unwin  required,  rendered 
it  impossible  for  us  to  be  very  assiduous  in  study." 

The  termination  of  their  visit  to  Mr.  Hayley  be- 
ing arrived,  a  journey  of  four  days  restored  the  party 
to  the  lodge  at  Weston ;  but  not  the  poet  to  a  re- 
sumption of  his  Miltonick  employment.  In  addition 
to  the  above-mentioned  obstacle,  the  habio  of  study 
had  so  totally  left  him,  that  instead  of  beginnmg  hia 
dissertations  on  the  Paradise  Lost,  as  he  had  intend- 
ed, he  thus  writes  \o  this  kinsman^  who  had  returned 


i^lFE  OF  COWPER.  3^ 

into  Norfolk :  "  I  proceed  exactly  as  when  you  were 
here — a  letter  now  and  then  before  breakfast,  and  the 
rest  of  my  time  all  holy-day  :  if  holy-day  it  may  be 
called  that  is  spent  chiefly  in  moping  and  musing,  and 
^forecasting  the  fashion  of  uncertain  evils'  " 

On  the  4th  of  March,  1793,  he  says  in  a  letter  to  his 
friend,  the  Reverend  Walter  Bagot :  "  While  the  win- 
ter lasted  I  was  miserable  with  a  fever  on  my  spirits  ; 
when  the  spring  began  to  approach,  I  was  seized  with 
an  inflammation  in  my  eyes ;  and  ever  since  I  have  been 
able  to  use  them,  have  been  employed  in  giving  more 
last  touches  to  Homer,  who  is  on  the  point  of  going 
to  the  press  again."  At  the  request  of  his  worthy  book- 
seller, he  added  explanatory  notes  to  his  revision ;  in 
allusion  to  which  he  writes  in  May  to  his  friend  Rose. 
"  I  breakfast  every  morning  or  seven  or  eight  pages  of 
the  Greek  commentators.  For  so  much  am  I  obliged 
lo  read  in  order  to  select  perhaps  three  or  four  short 
notes  for  the  readers  of  my  translation."  He  says  to 
Mr.  Hayley,  in  tlie  same  month,  "  I  rise  at  six  every 
morning,  and  fag  till  near  eleven,  when  I  breakfast. — 
^\  cannot  spare  a  moment  for  eating  in  the  early  part 
of  the  morning,  having  no  other  time  to  study."  The 
truth  is  that  his  grateful  aflfectionate  spirit  devoted  all 
the  rest  of  the  day,  from  breakfast,  to  the  helpless 
state  of  his  afHicted  companion  ;  of  whose  similar  at- 
tentions to  his  own  necessities  he  had  had  such  abun- 
dant experience.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  an  ar- 
rangement of  this  sort  was  highly  prejudicial  to  the 
health  of  Cowper,  and  that  it  hastened  the  approach 
of  the  last  calamitous  attack  with  which  this  interest- 
ing suflerer  was  yet  to  be  visited.  For  the  present, 
however,  he  was  supported  under  it ;  writing  pleasantly 
tlius  to  Mr.  Hayley  in  October  ;  "  On  Tuesday,  we 
expect  company — Mr.  Rose,  and  Lawrence  the  painter. 
Yet  ence  more  my  patience  is  to  be  exercised,  and 
once  more   .  2*m  made  to  wish  that  my  face  had  been 


40  SKETCH  OF  THE 

moveable,  to  put  on  and  take  off  at  pleasure,  so  as  to 

be  portable  in  a  band-box,  and  sent  to  the  artist." 

In  the  following  month  Mr.  Hayley  paid  his  second 
visit  to  Weston,  where  he  found  the  writer  of  this  nar- 
rative and  Mr.  Rose.  "  The  latter,"  says  the  biogra- 
pher o^Cowper,  *'  came  recently  from  the  seat  of 
lord  Spencer,  in  Northamptonshire,  and  commissioned 
by  that  accomplished  nobleman  to  invite  Cowper  and 
his  guests  to  Althorpe,  where  my  friend  Gibbon  was 
to  make  a  visit  of  considerable  continuance.  All  the 
guests  of  Cowper  now  recommended  it  to  him  very 
strongly  to  venture  on  this  little  excursion,  to  a  house 
whose  master  he  most  cordially  respected,  and  whose 
library  alone  might  be  regarded  as  a  magnet  of  very 
powerful  attraction  to  every  elegant  scholar.  I  virish- 
ed,"  continues  Mr.  Hayley,  "  to  see  Cowper  and  Gib- 
bon personally  acquainted,  oecause  I  perfectly  knew 
the  real  benevolence  of  both  ;  for  widely  as  they  might 
differ  on  one  important  article,  they  were  both  ablo 
and  worthy  to  appreciate  and  enjoy  the  extraordinary 
mental  powers  of  each  other.  But  the  constitutional 
shyness  of  the  poet  conspires  with  the  present  infirm 
state  of  Mrs.  Unwin  to  prevent  their  meeting.  He 
sent  Mr.  Rose  and  me  to  make  his  apology  for  declin- 
ing so  honourable  an  invitation." 

In  a  few  days  from  this  time  the  guests  of  Cowper 
left  him,  and  before  the  end  of  the  year  he  thus  writes 
to  his  friend  of  Eartham  :  "  It  is  a  great  relief  to  me 
that  my  Miltonick  labours  are  suspended.  I  am  now 
busied  in  transcribing  the  alterations  of  Homer,  having 
finished  the  whole  revisal.  I  must  then  write  a  new 
preface,  which  done,  I  shall  endeavour  immediately  to 
descant  on  '  The  Four  Ages.'  " 

Instead,  however,  of  recording  the  prosecution  of 
^his  poem,  as  the  work  of  the  beginning  of  the  follow- 
ing year,  it  becomes  the  painful  duty  of  the  author  o"^ 
tliis  memoir  to  exhibit  the  truly  excellent  and  pitiable 


LIFE  OF  COVVPER.  41 

subject  of  it  as  very  differently  employed,  and  as  com- 
mencing his  descent  into  those  depths  of  affliction  from 
which  his  spirit  was  only  to  emerge  by  departing  from 
the  earth.  Writing  to  Mr.  Rose,  in  January,  1794,  he 
says,  "  I  have  just  ability  enough  to  transcribe,  which 
is  all  that  I  can  do  at  present :  God  knows  that  I  write 
at  this  moment  under  the  pressure  of  sadness  not  to  be 
described."  It  was  a  happy  circumstance  that  lady 
Hesketh  had  arrived  at  Weston  a  few  weeks  previouo 
to  this  calamitous  attack,  the  increasing  infirmities  of 
Cowper's  aged  companion,  Mrs.  Unwin,  having  reduc- 
ed her  to  a  state  of  second  childhood.  Towards  the 
end  of  February,  the  care  of  attending  to  his  afflicted 
relative  was  for  a  short  time  engaged  in  by  the  writer 
of  these  pages,  who  had  scarcely  returned  to  his  pro- 
fessional duties,  when,  in  consequence  of  an  affection- 
ate summons  from  Cowper's  valuable  neighbour,  and 
highly  respected  friend,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Greatheed  of 
Newport  Pagnel,  Mr.  Hayley  repaired  to  the  Lodge. 
During  the  continuance  of  his  visit,  which  was  extend- 
ed to  several  weeks,  all  expedients  were  resorted  to, 
which  the  most  tender  ingenuity  could  devise,  to  pro- 
mote the  object  which  had  given  rise  to  it.  But  though 
the  efforts  of  this  cordial  and  tried  friend  to  restore  the 
poet  to  any  measure  of  cheerfulness,  were  altogether 
ineffectual,  yet,  as  a  reward  for  his  humanity,  it  pleas- 
ed God  to  refresh  his  benevolent  spirit,  at  this  time, 
by  the  success  of  a  plan  for  the  benefit  of  Cowper,  the 
idea  of  which  had  originated  with  himself.  The  cir- 
cumstance alluded  to  is  thus  related  by  the  biographer 
of  the  poet :  "  It  was  on  the  23d  of  April,  1794,  in 
one  of  those  melancholy  mornings,  when  his  compas- 
sionate friend  lady  Hesketh  and  myself  were  watching 
together  over  this  dejected  sufferer,  that  a  letter  from 
Lord  Spencer  arrived  at  Weston,  to  announce  the  in- 
tended grant  of  such  a  pension  from  his  majesty  to 
Cowper,  as  would  ensure  an  honourable  competence 
for  the  residue  of  his  life.  This  intelligence  produced 
4# 


42  SKETCH  OF  THE 

in  the  friends  of  the  poet  very  lively  emotions  of  de* 
light,  yet  blended  with  pain  almost  as  powerful ;  for 
it  was  painful,  in  no  tiifling  degree,  tc  reflect,  thai 
these  desirable  smiles  of  good  fortune  could  not  im- 
part even  a  faint  glimmering  of  joy  to  the  dejectea 
invalid. 

"  His  friends,  however,  had  the  animating  hope,  that 
a  day  would  arrive  when  they  might  see  him  receive 
with  a  cheerful  and  joyous  gratitude,  this  royal  recom- 
pense for  merit  universally  acknowledged.  They  knew 
that  when  he  recovered  his  suspended  faculties,  he 
must  be  particularly  pleased,  to  find  himself  chiefly 
indebted  for  his  good  fortune  to  the  active  benevolence 
of  that  nobleman,  who,  though  not  personally  ac- 
quainted with  Covvper,  stood,  of  all  his  noble  friends, 
the  highest  in  his  esteem.  "  "  He  was  unhappily  disa- 
bled," continues  his  biographer,  "  from  feeling  the  fa- 
vour he  received,  but  an  annuity  of  three  hundred  a  year 
was  graciously  secured  to  him,  and  rendered  payable 
to  his  friend  Mr.  Rose,  as  the  trustee  of  Cowper." 

Another  extract  from  Mr.  Hayley  will  advance  the 
memoir  to  the  close  of  the  poet's  residence  in  Buck- 
inghamshire. "  From  the  time  when  I  left  my  unhappy 
friend  at  Weston,  in  the  spring  of  the  year. 1794,  he 
remained  there,  under  the  tender  vigilance  of  his  affec- 
tionate relation,  lady  Hesketh,  till  the  latter  end  of 
July,  1795  ; — a  long  season  of  the  darkest  depression  ' 
in  which  the  best  medical  advice,  and  the  influence  of 
time,  appeared  equally  unable  to  lighten  that  afflictive 
burthen  which  pressed  incessantly  on  his  spirits." 

A  few  weeks  prior  to  the  last  mentioned  period  the 
task  of  superintending  this  interesting  sufferer  was 
again  shared  with  Lady  Hesketh  by  ber  former  associ- 
ate from  Norfolk  ;  to  whom  it  forcib  y  occurred,  one 
day,  as  he  reflected  on  the  inefficacy  of  the  air  and 
scenery  of  Weston  in  promoting  the  return  of  health 
to  his  revered  relation,  that  perhaps  a  summer's  resi- 
dence  by  the  sea-side  might  restore  him  to  the  en 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  43 

joyment  of  that  invaluable  blessing.  Lady  Hesketh, 
to  whom  he  communicated  this  idea,  being  of  the  same 
opinion,  arrangements  were  speedily  made  for  his 
conducting  the  two  venerable  invalids  from  Bncking- 
hamshire  into  Norfolk,  whom,  after  a  residence  there 
of  a  few  months,  he  hoped  to  reconduct  to  the  Lodge 
.n  amended  health  and  spirits. 

It  was  a  singularly  happy  circumstance  that  in  this 
projected  departure  from  his  beloved  Weston,  neither 
Cowper,  nor  Mrs.  Unwin,  nor  either  of  their  friends, 
thought  of  any  thing  further  than  a  temporary  absence. 
For  had  the  measure  been  suggested  under  the  idea  of 
a  final  separation  from  that  endeared  residence,  which 
was  eventually  found  to  have  been  the  intention  of 
Providence,  the  anguish  of  Cowper  in  passing  for  the 
last  time  over  the  threshold  of  his  favourite  retire- 
ment, and  in  taking  leave  of  Lady  Hesketh  for  ever, 
might  not  only  have  proved  fatal  to  the  delicate  health 
of  his  affectionate  relative,  but  have  so  extended  itself 
to  the  breast  of  his  conductor,  as  to  have  deprived  him 
of  the  necessary  fortitude  for  sustaining  so  long  a  jour- 
ney with  so  helpless  a  charge.  Nothing  of  the  kind, 
however,  having  entered  into  the  calculation  of  either 
party,  both  the  setting  out  for  Norfolk,  on  Tuesday 
the  28th  of  July,  1795,  and  the  subsequent  travelling 
thither  of  three  days,  were  unattended  with  any  pecu- 
liarly distressing  circumstances. 

As  it  was  highly  important  to  guard  against  the  ef- 
fect of  noise  and  tumult  on  the  shattered  nerves  of  the 
desponding  traveller,  care  was  taken  that  a  relay  of 
horses  should  be  ready  on  the  skirts  of  the  towns  of 
Bedford  and  Cambridge,  by  which  means  he  passed 
through  those  places  without  stopping.  On  the  even- 
ing of  the  first  day,  the  quiet  village  of  St.  Neots,  near 
Eaton,  afforded  as  convenient  a  resting-place  for  the 
party  as  could  have  been  desired  ;  and  the  peaceful 
moonlight  scenery  of  the  spot,  as  Cowper  walked  with 
his  kinsman  up  and  down  the    church-yard,  had   st 


44  SKETCH  OF  THE 

favourable  an  effect  on  his  spirits,  that  he  conversed 
with  him,  with  much  composure,  on  the  subject  of 
Thomson's  Seasons,  and  the  circumstances  under 
which  they  were  probably  written. 

This  gleam  of  cheerfulness  with  which  it  pleased  God 
to  visit  the  afflicted  poet,  at  the  commencement  of  his 
journey,  though  nothing  that  may  at  all  compared 
with  it  was  ever  again  exhibited  in  his  conversation,  is 
yet  a  subject  of  grateful  remembrance  to  the  writer  of 
this  sketch  ;  for  though  it  vanished,  from  the  breast  of 
Cowper,  like  the  dew  of  the  morning,  it  preserved  the 
sunshine  of  hope  in  his  own  mind,  as  to  the  final  reco- 
very of  his  revered  relative  ;  and  that  cheering  hope 
never  forsook  him  till  the  object  of  his  incessant  care 
was  sinking  into  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death. 

At  the  close  of  the  second  day's  journey,  the  poet 
and  his  aged  companion  found  in  the  solitary  situation 
of  Barton  Mills  a  convenient  place  to  rest  at ;  and  the 
third  day  brought  them  to  North  Tuddei^ham,  in  Nor 
folk.  Here,  by  the  kindness  of  the  reverend  Leonard 
Shelford,  they  were  comfortably  accommodated  witli 
an  untenanted  Parsonage  House  in  which  they  were 
received  by  Miss  Johnson  and  Miss  Perowne  ;  the  re- 
sidence of  their  conductor,  in  the  market-place  of  East 
Dereham,  being  thought  unfavourable  to  the  tender 
spirits  of  Cowper.  Of  the  latter  of  these  ladies,  Mr. 
Hayley  says,  with  equal  truth  and  felicity  of  expres- 
Bion,  "  Miss  Perowne  is  one  of  those  excellent  beings 
whom  nature  seems  to  have  formed  expressly  for  the 
purpose  of  alleviating  the  sufferings  of  the  afflicted  ; 
tenderly  vigilant  in  providing  for  the  wants  of  sickness, 
and  resolutely  firm  in  administering  such  relief  as  the 
most  intelligent  compassion  can  supply.  Cov/per 
speedily  observed  and  felt  the  invaluable  virtues  of  his 
new  attendant ;  and  during  the  last  years  of  his  life  he 
honoured  her  so  far  as  to  prefer  her  personal  assistance 
to  that  of  every  individual  ai  ound  him." 

As  the  season  of  the  year  was  particularly  favour 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  45 

able  for  walking,  the  poet  was  prevailed  on,  by  his 
kinsman,  to  make  frequent  excursions  of  this  sort  in 
the  retired  vicinity  of  Tuddenham  Parsonage  ;  one  of 
which  he  extended  to  the  house  of  his  cousin,  Mrs. 
Bodham,  at  Mattis-hall.  The  sight  of  his  own  por- 
trait, painted  by  Abbott,  in  one  of  the  apartments  of 
that  residence,  awakening  in  his  mind  a  recollection 
of  the  comparatively  happy  moments  in  which  he  sat 
for  the  picture,  extorted  from  him  a  passionately  ex- 
pressed wish,  that  similar  sensations  might  yet  return. 

It  being  fondly  hoped  by  his  kinsman,  that  not  only 
this  wish,  but  many  more  of  the  same  kind,  and  those 
most  sanguine,  conceived  by  himself,  might  be  realized 
by  a  removal  to  the  sea-side,  he  conducted  the  two  in- 
valids on  the  19th  of  August,  1795,  to  the  village  of 
Mundsley,  on  the  Norfolk  coast.  They  had  been  there 
but  a  short  time,  when  his  companion  perceived  tliat 
there  was  something  inexpressibly  soothing  to  the  spirit 
of  Cowper  in  the  monotonous  sound  of  the  breakers. 
This  induced  him  to  confine  the  walks  of  the  poet, 
whom  dejection  precluded  from  the  exercise  of  all 
choice  whatever,  or  at  least  the  expression  of  it,  almost 
wholly  to  the  sands,  which  at  Mundsley  are  remarkably 
firm  and  level ;  till  an  incident  occurred  which  intro- 
duced them  to  the  inland,  but  still  pleasing  walks  of 
that  vicinity.  The  circumstance  alluded  to  is  stated  in 
the  following  letter,  which,  after  a  long  suspension  of 
epistolary  employment,  the  poet  addressed  to  Mr 
Buchanan.  "  It  shows,"  as  Mr.  Hayley  observes,  "  the 
severity  of  his  depression,  but  shows  also  that  faint 
gleams  of  pleasure  could  occasionally  break  through 
the  settled  darkness  of  melancholy." 

It  is  introduced  with  a  quotation  from  the  Lycidas 
of  Milton. 

'•  To  interpose  a  little  ease. 
Let  my  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise/' 

'•'  I  will  forget,  for  a  moment,  that  to  whomsoever  1 
may  address  myself,  a  letter  from  me  can  no  othcrwiso 


46  SKETCH  OF  THL 

be  welcome,  than  as  a  curiosity.  To  you,  Sir,  I  ad 
dress  this  ;  urged  to  it  by  extreme  penury  of  employ-, 
ment,  and  the  desire  I  feel  to  learn  something  of  what 
is  doing,  and  has  been  done  at  Weston  (my  beloved 
Weston !)  since  I  left  it. 

"  The  coldness  of  these  blasts,  even  in  the  hottest 
days,  has  been  such,  that,  added  to  the  irritation  of  the 
salt  spray,  with  which  they  are  always  charged,  they 
have  occasioned  me  an  inflammation  in  the  eyelids, 
which  threatened  a  fev/  days  since  to  confine  me  entire- 
ly ;  but  by  absenting  myself  as  much  as  possible  from 
the  beach,  and  guarding  my  face  with  an  umbrella,  that 
inconvenience  is  in  some  degree  abated.  My  cham- 
ber commands  a  very  near  view  of  the  ocean,  and  the 
ships  at  high  water  approach  the  coast  so  closely,  that 
a  man  furnished  with  better  eyes  Ihan  mine  might,  I 
doubt  not,  discern  the  sailors  from  the  window.  No 
situation,  at  least  when  the  weather  is  clear  and  bright, 
can  be  pleasanter )  which  you  will  easily  credit,  when 
I  add  that  it  imparts  something  a  little  resembling  plea- 
sure even  to  me. — Gratify  me  with  news  from  Weston  ! 
If  Mr.  Gregson,  and  your  neighbours  the  Courtenays, 
are  there,  mention  me  to  them  in  such  terms  as  you 
see  good.  Tell  me  if  my  poor  birds  are  living  :  I 
never  see  the  herbs  I  used  to  give  them  without  a  re- 
collection of  them,  and  sometimes  am  ready  to  gather 
them,  forgetting  that  I  am  not  at  home.  Pardon  this 
intrusion. 

"  Mrs.  Unwin  continues  much  as  usual. 
**  Mundsleijj  Sept.  5,  1795". 

The  hopes  of  the  kinsman  of  Cowper  were  greatly 
elevated  by  the  unexpected  despatch  of  the  above  epis- 
tle, which  he  hailed  as  the  forerunner  of  many  more, 
each  contributing  something  to  the  alleviation  of  his  me- 
landioly.  With  the  exception,  however,  of  two,  here- 
aWr  mentioned,  it  was  the  only  letter  which  the  over- 
whelming influence  of  his  disorder  woulc  suffer  liim  to 
write  in  his  latter  years. 


LIPE  OF  COWPER.  17 

The  effect  of  air  and  exercise  on  the  dejected  poet 
being  by  no  means  such  as  his  friends  had  hoped, 
change  of  scene  was  resorted  to  as  the  next  expedient. 
About  six  miles  to  tlie  south  of  Mundsley,  and  also  on 
the  coast,  is  a  village  called  Happisburgh,  or  Hasboro', 
which,  in  the  days  of  his  youth,  Cowper  had  I'isited 
from  Catfield,  the  residence  of  his  mother's  brotlier. 
An  excursion  therefore  to  this  place  was  projected,  and 
happily  accomplished  by  sea ;  a  mode  of  conveyance 
which  had  at  least  novelty  to  recommend  it ;  but  a  gale 
of  wind  having  sprung  up,  soon  after  his  arrival  there, 
the  return  by  water  was  unexpectedly  precluded,  and 
he  was  under  the  necessity  of  effecting  it  on  foot 
through  the  neighbouring  villages.  To  the  agreeable 
surprise  of  his  conductor,  this  very  considerable  walk 
was  performed  with  scarcely  any  fatigue  to  the  invalid 
This  incident  led  to  a  welcome  discovery  .  namely, 
that,  shattered  as  the  person  of  Cowper  was,  and  re- 
duced even  to  a  consumptive  thinness,  it  yet  retained 
a  considerable  portion  of  muscular  strength.  This  in- 
duced an  extension  of  those  daily  walks  in  which  the 
vicinity  of  Mundsley  was  gradually  explored.  It  led 
Ukewise  to  a  journey  of  fifty  miles  in  a  post-chaise,  by 
way  of  Cromer,  Holt,  and  Fakenham,  the  object  of 
which  was  to  take  a  view  of  Dunham  Lodge,  a  vacant 
seat  on  a  high  ground,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  S waff- 
ham.  Cowper  observed  of  this  mansion,  which  was  re- 
cently built  by  Edward  Parry,  Esq.  that  it  was  rather 
too  spacious  for  his  requirements ;  but  as  he  did  not 
seem  unwilling  to  inhabit  it,  his  companion,  who  con- 
ceived it  to  be  a  far  more  eligible  situation  for  his  in- 
teresting charge  than  his  own  house  in  the  town  of 
Dereham,  was  induced  to  become  the  tenant  of  it  at  a 
subsequent  period.  They  proceeded  to  the  last  incu- 
tioned  place,  which  'is  about  eight  miles  east  of  Dun- 
ham Lodge,  the  same  evening  ;  and  the  next  dny,  a 
journey  of  thirty  miles  through  Reepiiani,  Aylshani 
and  \orlh  Walsham,  returned  them  syfo  to  M\:ndsk'< 


48  SKETCH  OF  THE 

Here  they  remained  till  the  7th  of  October,  the  healtn, 
if  not  the  spirits  of  Covvper,  being  benefited  by  it, 
though  the  infirmities  of  Mrs.  Unwin  continued  the 
same.  On  that  day,  the  party  removed  to  Dereham, 
and  again,  in  the  course  of  the  month,  to  Dunham 
Lodge,  which  was  now  become  their  settled  residence. 

As  the  season  advanced,  the  amusement  of  walking 
being  rendered  impracticable,  and  his  spirits  being  by 
no  means  sufficiently  recovered  to  admit  of  his  resum- 
ing either  his  pen  or  his  books,  the  only  resource  which 
was  left  to  the  poet,  was  to  listen  incessantly  to  the 
reading  of  his  companion.  The  kind  of  books  that 
appeared  most,  and  indeed  solely  to  attract  him,  were 
works  of  fiction ;  and  so  happy  was  the  influence  of 
these  in  riveting  his  attention,  and  abstracting  him,  of 
coarse,  from  the  contemplation  of  his  miseries,  that  ho 
discovered  a  peculiar  satisfaction  when  a  production 
of  fancy  of  more  than  ordinary  length  was  introduced 
by  liis  kinsman.  This  was  no  sooner  perceived,  than 
he  was  furnished  with  the  voluminous  pages  of  Ri- 
chardson, to  which  he  listened  with  the  greater  inter- 
est, as  he  had  been  personally  acquainted  with  that  in- 
genious writer. 

At  this  time  the  tender  spirit  of  Cowper  clung  ex- 
ceedingly to  those  about  him,  and  seemed  to  be  haunt- 
ed with  a  continual  dread  that  they  would  leave  him 
alone  in  his  solitary  mansion.  Sunday,  therefore,  was 
a  day  of  more  than  ordinary  apprehension  to  him  ;  aa 
the  furthest  of  his  kinsman's  churches  being  fifteen 
miles  from  the  Lodge,  he  was  necessarily  absent  during 
the  whole  of  the  sabbath.  On  these  occasions,  it  wa3 
the  (constant  practice  of  the  dejected  poet  to  listen  fre- 
quently on  the  steps  of  the  hall-door  for  the  barking  of 
dogs  at  a  farm-house,  which,  in  the  stillness  of  the 
night,  though  at  nearly  the  distance  of  two  miles,  in- 
variably announced  the  approach  of  his  companion 

To  remove  the  inconvenience  of  these  lengthened 
absences,  an  inquiry  was  set  on  foot  by  the  attendant 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  49 

of  Cowper  for  a  house  equally  retired  with  Dunham 
Lodge,  but  nearer  the  scene  of  his  ministerial  duties 
The  search,  however,  proving  fruitless,  he  ventuiedto 
consult  his  beloved  charge,  as  to  how  far  he  could  to 
lerate  the  Dereham  residence.  To  his  agreeable  sur- 
prise, he  found  that  he  not  only  preferred  it  to  his 
present  situation,  but,  if  the  question  had  been  put  to 
him  in  the  first  instance,  would  never  have  wished  any  _ 
other.  It  was  agreed,  therefore,  that  as  the  ensuing 
summer  was  to  be  spent  at  Mundsley,  they  should  re- 
main at  Dunham  Lodge  till  that  period,  and  return 
from  the  sea  to  Dereham. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  employment  of  reading,  and, 
as  often  as  the  weather  permitted,  excursions  on  foot, 
or  in  an  open  carriage,  amused  the  sufferer  till  the 
commencement  of  1796;  in  the  month  of  April  of 
which  year  Mrs.  Unwin  received  a  visit  from  her 
daughter  and  son-in-law,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Powley.  The 
tender,  and  even  filial  attention  which  the  compassion- 
ate invalid  had  never  ceased  to  exercise  towards  his 
aged  and  infirm  companion,  was  now  shared  by  her 
affectionate  relatives :  to  whom  it  could  not  but  be  a 
gratifying  spectacle  to  see  their  venerable  parent  so 
assiduously  watched  over  by  Cowper,  even  in  his  dark- 
est periods  of  depression.  The  visit  of  these  exem- 
plary persons  was  productive  also  of  advantage  to 
their  friends,  as  the  salutary  custom  of  reading  a  chap- 
ter in  the  Bible  to  her  mother,  every  morning  before 
she  rose,  was  continued  by  the  writer  of  this  memoir, 
who,  as  the  poet  always  visited  the  chamber  of  his  poor 
old  friend,  the  moment  he  had  finished  his  breakfast, 
took  care  to  read  the  chapter  at  that  time. 

It  was  a  pleasing  discovery,  which  the  companion  of 
Cowper  had  now  made,  that  immersed  as  he  was  in  the 
depth  of  despondence,  all  the  billows  of  which  had 
gene  over  his  soul,  he  could  yet  listen  with  composure 
to  the  voice  of  inspiration,  of  which  he  had  been  con- 
ceived to  be  unwilling  to  hear  oven  the  name.     Being 

Vol.  III.  5 


50  SKETCH  OF  THE 

encouraged  by  the  result  of  the  above  experiment,  the 
conductor  of  the  devotions  of  this  retired  family  ven- 
tured, in  the  course  of  a  few  days,  to  let  the  members 
of  it  meet  for  prayers  in  the  room  where  Cowper  was, 
instead  of  assembling  in  another  apartment,  as  they 
hitherto  had  done,  under  the  influence,  as  it  proved,  of 
a  misconception,  with  regard  to  his  ability  to  attend 
the  service.  On  the  first  occurrence  of  this  new  ar- 
rangement, of  which  no  intimation  had  been  previously 
given  him,  he  was  preparing  to  leave  the  room,  but 
was  prevailed  on  to  resume  his  seat,  by  a  word  of  sooth- 
ing and  whispered  entreaty. 

The  arrival  of  Wakefield's  edition  of  Pope's  Homer, 
at  Dunham  Lodge,  in  June,  1796,  was  productive  of 
happy  consequences  to  the  invalid,  by  supplying  an 
occupation  to  his  harassed  mind,  which  absorbed  it 
still  more  than  that  of  listening  to  the  works  before 
mentioned.  These  fabrications  of  fancy,  however, 
were  not  laid  aside,  but  varied  with  conceptions  of  a 
much  higher  order  ;  even  the  sublime  flights  of  the  il- 
lustrious Greek,  to  which  the  attention  of  his  transla- 
tor was  again  awakened,  in  the  following  rather  singu- 
lar manner. 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  poet,  on  leaving  Mrs.  Un- 
win's  apartment  in  the  morning,  to  take  a  few  turns 
by  himself  in  a  large  unfrequented  room,  which  he 
jjad  to  pass  in  his  way  back  to  the  parlour.  His  com- 
panion, therefore,  having  observed  that  the  notes  of 
the  ingenious  Mr.  Wakefield  were  not  without  a  re- 
ference to  the  labours  of  Cowper,  took  care  to  place 
the  eleven  volumes  of  that  editor's  recent  publication 
in  a  conspicuous  part  of  this  room  ;  having  previously 
hinted,  in  the  hearing  of  his  friend,  that  there  Vv^as  in 
them  an  occasional  comparison  of  Pope  with  Cowper. 
To  his  agreeable  surprise,  he  discovered,  the  next  day, 
that  the  latter  had  not  only  found  these  notes,  but  had 
corrected  his  translation  at  the  suggestion  of  some  of 
them      From  the  moment  that  this  reviving  interest  in 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  51 

his  version  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  was  perceived  to 
exist  in  the  breast  of  Cowper,  it  was  vigilantly  cho 
rished  by  the  utmost  efforts  of  his  attendant,  till,  in  the 
ensuing  August,  he  had  decidedly  engaged  in  a  revisal 
of  the  whole  work,  and  was  daily  producing  almost 
sixty  new  lines. 

Much  hope  had  been  entertained  by  the  friends  of 
Cowper,  that  this  voluntary  resumption  of  poetical 
employment  would  have  led  to  his  speedy  and  perfect 
recovery :  but  the  removal  of  the  family  in  Septem- 
ber from  Dunham  Lodge,  which  they  now  finally  quit 
ted,  to  their  temporary  residence  at  Mundsley,  so 
completely  dissipated  his  habits  of  attention,  that  a 
twelvemonth  elapsed  before  he  could  be  again  prevail- 
ed on  to  return  to  his  revision.  In  the  mean  time  the 
air  and  walks  of  that  favourite  village,  both  marine 
and  inland,  were  fully  tried,  till  towards  the  end  of 
October,  v/hen  no  apparent  benefit  having  been  deriv- 
ed to  the  dejected  poet,  by  his  visit  to  the  coast,  the 
invalids  and  their  attendants  retired  to  Dereham. 

Cowper  was  scarcely  settled  in  this  new  habitation, 
(in  point  of  seclusion,  the  reverse  of  Dunham  Lodge,) 
when  his  friends  had  the  satisfaction  to  see  that  the 
scenery  of  a  town  was  by  no  means  distressing  to  his 
tender  spirit.  Now,  to  employ  the  language  of  his 
Sussex  friend,  "  the  long  and  exemplary  life  of  Mrs. 
Unwin  was  drawing  towards  a  close.  The  powers  of 
nature  were  gradually  exhausted,  and  on  the  17th  of 
December  she  ended  a  troubled  existence,  distinguish, 
ed  by  a  sublime  spirit  of  piety  and  friendship,  which 
shone  through  long  periods  of  calamity,  and  continued 
to  glimmer  through  the  distressful  twilight  of  her  de- 
clining faculties.  The  precise  moment  of  her  de- 
parture was  so  tranquil,  that  it  was  only  marked  by 
the  cessation  of  her  breath,  as  the  clock  was  striking 
one  in  the  afternoon." 

Gentle,  however,  as  were  the  approaches  of  the  last 
messenger  in  /he  case  of  this  eminent  servant  of  ^od, 


52  SKETCH  OF  THE 

and  little  as,  under  the  ceaseless  pressure  of  his  own 
Biitierings  he  had  hitherto  appeared  to  notice  thuin, 
t})cy  had  yet  been  perceived  by  Cowper  ;  for,  as  a 
faithful  servant  of  his  dying  friend  and  himself  were 
opening  the  window  of  his  chamber  on  the  morning  of 
tlie  day  of  her  decease,  he  said  to  her,  in  a  tone  of 
voice  at  once  plaintive,  and  full  of  anxiety  as  to  what 
might  be  the  situation  of  his  aged  companion, "  Sally, 
is  there  life  above-stairs  ?" 

From  a  dread  of  the  effect  of  such  a  scene  upon  liis 
mind,  the  first  object  of  the  kinsman  of  Cowper,  who 
had  attended  him  to  the  bedside  of  his  departing  friend, 
about  half  an  hour  before  her  death,  was  to  reconduct 
his  pitiable  charge  to  the  apartment  below,  and  in- 
stantly to  commence  reading.  This  expedient,  so  of 
ten  resorted  to,  with  a  view  to  composing  the  spirit  of 
Cowper,  and  generally  speaking,  with  much  success, 
was  happily  eilicacious  in  the  present  instance.  For 
though  the  reader  had  scarcely  advanced  a  few  pages 
Defore  he  was  beckoned  out  of  the  room  to  be  informed 
of  the  death  of  Mrs.  Unwin,  ho  returned  to  it  some 
moments  after,  without  being  questioned  as  to  why  he 
had  left  it.  Apprehending  from  this  circumstance, 
and  from  a  rapid  observation  of  his  countenance  with 
every  turn  of  which  he  had  long  been  familiar,  that 
the  mind  of  his  beloved  relative  was  perhaps  in  as  fit  a 
state  for  the  reception  of  the  melancholy  tidings,  as, 
under  the  pressure  of  his  calamity,  it  could  be,  the 
writer  of  this  memoir  resolved  to  reveal  them.  As  he 
was  sitting  down  therefore  to  the  book,  and  turning 
over  the  leaves  to  resume  his  reading,  he  observed  to 
the  poet,  with  as  much  cheerfulness  and  tender  con- 
cern as  he  was  able  to  associate  in  the  same  tone  of 
voice,  that  his  poor  old  friend  had  breathed  her  last. 

This  intelligence  was  received  by  Cowper,  though 
not  entirely  without  emotion,  yet  with  such  as  was 
compatible  with  his  being  read  to  by  his  kinsman,  who 
oad  soon  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  his  interesting  pa» 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  53 

tient  as  composed  as  in  the  time  of  Mrs.  Unwm's  life* 
But  the  favourable  issue  of  two  distressing  periods 
was  still  to  be  provided  for ;  his  viewing  the  corpse, 
and  its  subsequent  removal  for  interment.  To  meet 
the  first  of  these  difficulties,  it  was  judged  expedient, 
that  the  kinsman  of  Cowper  should  attend  him  to  the 
chamber  of  his  departed  friend,  in  the  dusk  of  the 
evening,  when  only  an  indistinct  view  of  the  body 
could  be  obtained  ;  and  to  preclude  his  suspicion  of 
the  other,  the  funeral  was  appointed  to  take  place  by 
torch-light.  It  appeared,  however,  that  there  was  no 
necessity  for  the  latter  precaution,  as,  after  looking  at 
the  corpse  for  a  few  moments,  under  the  circumstances 
above  mentioned,  and  starting  suddenly  away,  with  a 
vehement  but  unfinished  sentence  of  passionate  sorrow, 
he  not  only  named  it  no  more,  but  never  even  spok«j 
of  Mrs.  Unwin. 

The  funeral  was  attended  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Powley, 
who  had  been  summoned  from  Yorkshire  within  the 
few  last  days  of  their  parent's  life,  but  had  not  arrived 
till  she  had  ceased  to  breathe  :  also  by  the  writer  of 
this  sketch,  and  some  members  of  his  family.  She 
was  buried  on  the  twenty-third  of  December,  in  the 
north  aisle  of  the  church  of  East  Dereham. 

The  commencement  of  the  yoar  1797  in  no  respect 
differed  from  that  of  the  preceding  years  of  his  illness, 
his  extreme  dejection  still  continuing,  and  the  only  al- 
leviation it  w^as  capable  of  receiving  being  still  the 
listening  to  works  of  fiction.  As  the  spring  advanced, 
however,  he  was  persuaded  to  resume  his  usual  walks, 
a  measure  to  which  the  situation  of  the  house  at  East 
Dereham  happily  presented  no  obstacles,  as  though  it 
fronted  the  market-place,  which  was  also  the  turnpike 
road,  it  was  contiguous  to  the  fields  on  its  opposite 
side.  This  was  equally  convenient  for  his  airings  in 
an  open  carriage,  which,  from  the  happy  effect  of  a 
course  of  ass's  milk  upon  his  bodily  health,  begun  on 
the  twenty-first  of  June  in  this  year,  he  was  enabled  to 


64  SKETCH  OF  THE 

bear,  for  a  few  weeks,  before  breakfast  This  was, 
undoubtedly,  the  period  of  his  last  deplorable  aflic- 
tion,  when  the  person  of  Cowper  made  the  nearest  ap- 
proaches to  the  appearance  it  had  exhibited  before  his 
illness.  His  countenance,  from  having  been  extreme- 
ly thin,  and  of  a  yellowish  hue,  had  recovered  much 
of  its  former  fulness  and  ruddy  complexion ;  his  limbs 
were  also  less  emaciated,  and  his  posture  more  erect : 
but  the  oppression  on  his  spirits  remained  the  same. 
Under  these  circumstances,  it  was  thought  advisable 
to  omit  the  visit  to  Mundsley  this  year,  and  to  take 
the  utmost  advantage  of  the  rides  about  Dereham. 

With  such  recreations,  and  the  never-failing  one  of 
reading,  the  summer  of  1797  was  brought  to  a  close  ; 
when,  dreading  the  effect  of  the  cessation  of  bodily 
exercise  upon  the  mind  of  Cowper  during  a  long  win- 
ter, his  kinsman  resolved,  if  it  were  possible,  to  rein- 
state him  in  the  revisal  of  his  Homer.  One  morning, 
therefore,  after  breakfast,  in  the  month  of  September, 
he  placed  the  commentators  on  the  table,  one  by  one ; 
namely,  Villoisson,  Barnes,  and  Clarke,  opening  them 
all,  together  with  the  poet's  translation,  at  the  place 
where  he  had  left  off  a  twelvemonth  before,  but  talk- 
ing with  him,  as  he  paced  the  room,  upon  a  very  dif- 
ferent subject,  namely,  the  impossibility  of  the 
things  befalling  him  which  his  imagination  had  repre- 
sented ;  when,  as  his  companion  had  wished,  he  said 
to  him,  *'  And  are  you  sure  that  I  shall  be  here  till  the 
book  you  are  reading  is  finished  .'"'  "  Quite  sure," 
replied  his  kinsman,  *'  and  that  you  will  be  here  to 
complete  the  revisal  of  your  Homer,"  pointing  to  the 
books,  "  if  you  will  resume  it  to-day."  As  he  re- 
peated these  words  he  left  the  room,  rejoicing  in  the 
well-known  token  of  their  having  sunk  into  the  poet's 
mind,  namely,  his  seating  himself  on  the  sofa,  taking 
up  one  of  the  books,  and  saying  in  a  low  and  plaintive 
Voice,  "  I  may  as  well  do  this,  for  I  can  do  nothing  else.' 

It  was  a  subject  of  much  gratitude  to  the  friends  of 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  55 

this  amiable  and  most  interesting  sufferer,  that  a  mer- 
ciful Providence  should  again  appoint  him  the  employ 
ment  alluded  to,  as,  more  than  any  thing  else,  it  di 
verted  his  mind  from -R'  contemplation  of  its  miseries, 
and  seemed  to  extend  his  breathing,  which  was  at 
other  times  short,  to  a  depth  of  respiration  more  com- 
patible with  ease.  They  had  the  happiness  to  see  him 
perfectly  settled  to  the  work,  and  persevering  in  it, 
feeble  and  dejected  as  he  was,  till  he  brought  it  to  a 
prosperous  clo'sei        •'         -  ;  .. 

In  the  meantime,  the  visit  to  the  coast  was  repeat- 
ed ;  not  indeed,  as  in  former  cases,  for  a  continuance 
there  of  some  months,  but  with  an  intention  of  renew- 
ing it  S3veral  times  in  the  same  season.  The  series 
of  excursions  to  the  marine  village  of  Mundsley  com- 
menced in  the  summer  of  1798,  and  was  varied  by  a 
return  to  Dereham  eight  or  ten  times,  after  a  resi- 
dence of  a  week  by  the  sea-side.  On  one  of  these  oc- 
casions he  visited  the  larger  of  the  two  Lighthouses  at 
Happisburgh  ;  the  extensive  prospect  from  which  em- 
bracing a  country  formerly  not  unknown  to  him,  hia 
companion  conceived  might  be  a  subject  of  interesting 
contemplation.  Such  in  some  measure  it  proved,  but 
the  attention  of  Cowper  seemed  more  attracted  by 
the  apparatus  of  the  building,  lamps  and  reflectors 
having  been  recently  substituted  for  a  fire  of  coals,  in 
describing  the  passage  of  that  intricate  coast.  It  was 
hoped  that  this  change  of  place,  accompanied  also  by 
a  diversity  of  objects,  might  operate  happily  on  the 
mmd  of  Cowper  J  and  to  a  certain  extent,  ft  did,  by 
producing  at  times,  a  mitigation  of  his  melancholy. 
In  this,  however,  there  is  no  doubt  that  Homer  had  a 
considerable  share,  as  he  was  the  constant  companion 
of  the  poet  on  the  coast.  The  Miscellaneous  Works 
of  Gibbon  also,  and  the  Pursuits  of  Literature,  which 
he  permitted  his  kinsman  to  read  to  him,  contributed 
lo  the  amusement  of  this  period. 

Two  occurrences  worthy  of  record,  as  tcstifymg  the 


56  SKETCH  Ot   THE 

regard  borne  to  Cowper  by  his  former  acquaintance 
took  place  this  year :  namely,  the  visit  in  July,  of  the 
dowager  lady  Spencer,  for  whom  he  had  always  enter 
tained  the  most  affectionate  respect,  and  that  of  hh 
highly  esteemed  friend,  Sir  John  Throckmorton,  in 
December.  But  though  the  former  had  come  many 
miles  out  of  her  way  to  see  him,  and  the  latter  had 
taken  a  journey  from  Lord  Petre's  expressly  for  that 
purpose,  the  pressure  of  his  malady  would  scarcely 
allow  him  to  speak  to  either  of  these  friends,  or  to  ex- 
press a  sense  of  their  kind  solicitude. 

On  a  Friday  evening,  the  eighth  of  March,  1799,  he 
completed  the  revisal  of  his  Homer,  and  the  next 
morning  entered  upon  the  new  preface,  w^hich,  how- 
ever, he  concluded  on  the  following  day,  so  that  his 
kinsman  beheld  him  once  more  without  employment. 

But  the  powers  of  his  astonishing  mind  were  yet  to 
be  exercised,  and  that  on  a  subject  altogether  of  his 
own  devising.  For  though  on  the  eleventh  of  March, 
his  attendant  laid  before  him  the  introductory  frag- 
ment of  his  formerly  projected  poem  of  The  Four  AgeSy 
he  merely  corrected  a  few  lines,  adding  two  or  three 
more,  and  declining  to  proceed,  with  this  remark, 
"  that  it  was  too  great  a  work  for  him  to  attempt  in 
his  present  situation.  " 

In  the  same  manner,  several  literary  projects, 
though  of  easier  accomplishment,  which  his  compa- 
nions suggested  to  him  at  supper,  were  objected  to  by 
the  poet,  who  at  length  replied  that  he  had  just  thought 
of  six  L3,tin  verses,  and  if  he  could  compose  any  thing, 
it  must  be  in  pursuing  that  composition. 

His  desk  being  opened  the  next  morning,  and  all 
things  duly  arranged  for  the  purpose,  his  kinsman  had 
the  satisfaction,  on  his  return  to  the  room,  to  see  a 
poem,  entitled  Monies  Glaciales,  commenced,  and  that 
Bome  verges  were  added  to  the  six  before  mentioned 
On  his  attentively  considering  the  title,  it  occurred  tc 
his  companion  that,  during  the  residence  of  the  poet 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  57 

At  Dunham  Lodge,  the  circumstance  which  he  had  be- 
gun to  versify,  had  been  read  to  him  in  one  of  the  Nor- 
;.vich  papers,  though  without  its  appearing  to  engage 
his  notice.  At  the  request  of  Miss  Perowne,  he  trans- 
lated this  poem  into  English  verse  on  the  19th  of  the 
same  month. 

If  the  friends  of  Cowper  were  not  a  little  surprised, 
that  his  memory  should  have  furnished  him  with  a 
subject  for  his  poetical  talent,  under  circumstances  so 
unlikely  to  favour  its  exertion,  his  producing  The  Cast- 
away the  next  day,  which  was  founded  on  an  incident 
recorded  in  Anson's  Voyage,  a  book  which  he  had  not 
looked  into  for  almost  twenty  years,  astonished  them 
still  more.  It  was,  however,  the  last  original  poem 
produced  by  the  pen  of  Cowper.  In  August  he  trans- 
lated it  into  Latin  verse. 

On  the  same  day  that  he  began  and  finished  The 
Cast-away,  the  Latin  poems  of  his  favourite  Vincent 
Bourne,  which  he  had  appeared  not  unwilling  to  enter 
upon  next,  were  laid  before  him,  and  he  translated 
"  The  Thracian."  But  as  his  subsequent  productions, 
with  their  respective  dates,  are  duly  specified  in  the 
following  pages,  after  observing  that  the  poet  went  in 
October  with  himself  and  Miss  Perowne  to  survey  a 
much  more  commodious  house  in  East  Dereham,  than 
the  family  had  hitherto  occupied  there,  and  to  which 
they  removed  in  December,  the  writer  of  this  memior 
will  draw  it  to  a  close. 

Cowper  had  not  passed  many  weeks  in  this  new  habi- 
tation, when  the  symptoms  of  weakness,  which  he  had 
for  some  time  exhibited,  assumed  a  dropsical  appear- 
ance in  the  ancles  and  feet.  Td  arrest  the  progress 
of  this  new  malady,  a  physician  was  called  in,  on  the 
31st  of  January,  1800,  by  the  aid  of  whose  prescrip- 
tions, which  he  was  with  difliculty  persuaded  to  follow, 
and  the  daily  exercise  of  a  post-chaise,  the  disorder 
was  so  far  checked  as  not  to  occasion  any  further 
alarm 


58  SKETCH  OF  THE 

Towards  the  end  of  January  his  attention  had  been 
leoalled  to  Homer,  by  a  request  from  his  friend  of  Sus- 
hcx,  who  wished  him  to  new-model  a  passage  in  hia 
Translation  of  the  Illiad,  where  mention  is  made  of 
the  very  ancient  sculpture  in  which  Dasdalus  had  re- 
presented the  Cretan  dance  for  Ariadno.  "  On  the 
31st  of  January,"  says  Mr.  Hayley,  "  I  received  from 
him  his  improved  version  of  the  lines  in  question,  writ- 
ten in  a  firm  and  delicate  hand.  The  sight  of  such  writ- 
ing from  my  long-silent  friend  inspired  me  with  a  lively, 
but  too  sanguine  hope,  that  I  might  see  him  once  more 
restored.  Alas  !  the  verses  which  I  surveyed  as  a  de- 
lightful omen  of  future  letters  from  a  correspondent  so 
inexpressibly  dear  to  me,  proved  the  last  effort  of  hia 
pen." 

By  the  22d  of  February  his  weakness  had  increased 
to  such  a  degree  as  to  be  incompatible  with  the  motion 
of  a  carriage,  which  was  therefore  discontinued  from 
that  day. 

He  had  now  ceased  to  come  down  stairs,  though  he 
was  still  able,  after  breakfasting  in  bed,  to  adjourn  to 
a  second  room  above,  and  to  remain  there  till  the  even- 
ing. 

Before  the  end  of  March  he  was  obliged  to  forego 
even  the  trifling  exercise  connected  with  this  change 
of  apartments,  and  to  confine  himself  altogether  to  hia 
bed-room ;  in  which,  however,  he  sat  up  to  every  meal 
except  breakfast. 

About  this  time  he  was  visited  by  his  friend  Mr. 
Rose,  whose  arrival  at  the  Lodge  at  Weston  he  had  so 
often  welcomed  with  the  sincerest  delight,  but  whoso 
approach  he  now  witnessed  with  scarcely  any  perceiv- 
able pleasure.  His  departure,  however,  on  the  6th  of 
Apiil,  excited  evident  feelings  of  regret  in  Cowper. 

The  humane  example  exhibited  by  Mr.  Rose,  in 
ihis  affectionate  visit  to  the  house  of  a  departing  friend 
would  have  been  speedily  followed  by  Mr.  Hayley  and 
Lady  Hesketh,  had  not  the  former  been  prevented  by 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  59 

the  impending  death  of  a  darling  child,  and  the  latter 
by  a  state  of  health  too  infirm  to  warrant  so  long  a 
journey,  and  into  which  she  had  fallen  soon  after  the 
departure  of  Cowper  from  Weston,  in  consequence  of 
her  protracted  and  painful  confinement  with  her  re- 
vered relative  during  the  early  stage  of  his  calamitous 
depression. 

On  the  19th  of  April  tW  weakness  of  this  truly  piti 
able  sufferer  had  so  much  increased,  that  his  kinsman 
apprehended  his  death  to  be  near.  Adverting,  there- 
fore, to  the  affliction,  as  well  of  body  as  of  mind,  which 
his  beloved  inmate  was  then  enduring,  he  ventured  to 
speak  of  his  approaching  dissolution  as  the  signal  of 
his  deliverance  from  both  these  miseries.  After  a  pause 
of  a  few  moments,  which  was  less  interrupted  by  the 
objections  of  his  desponding  relative  than  he  had  dared 
to  hope,  he  proceeded  to  an  observation  more  consola- 
tory still ;  namely,  that  in  the  world  to  which  he  was 
hastening,  a  merciful  Redeemer  had  prepared  unspeak- 
able happiness  for  all  his  children — and  therefore  for 
him.  To  the  first  part  of  this  sentence  he  had  listened 
with  composure,  but  the  concluding  words  were  no 
sooner  uttered  than  his  passionately  expressed  entrea- 
ties, that  his  companion  would  desist  from  any  further 
observations  of  a  similar  kind,  clearly  proved,  that 
though  it  was  on  the  eve  of  being  invested  with  an- 
gelick  light,  the  darkness  of  delusion  still  veiled  h:s 
spirit. 

The  clerical  duties  of  his  attendant  occasioned  his 
absence  during  the  greater  part  of  Sunday  the  20th  , 
but  he  learned  on  his  return  that  he  had  iiisome  mea 
erure  revived.  He  was,  however,  in  bed,  and  asleep  ; 
which  induced  his  kinsman  to  remain  in  the  room,  and 
watch  by  him.  Whilst  engaged  in  this  melancholy 
office,  and  endeavouring  to  reconcile  his  mind  to  tJie 
loss  of  so  dear  a  friend,  by  considering  the  gain  which 
that  friend  would  experience,  his  reflections  were  oud- 
«1enly  interrupted  by  the  unusual  and  singularly  varied 


60  SKETCH  OF  THE 

tone  of  his  broathing,  which  had  a  striking  resemblance 
to  the  confused  notes  of  an  organ.  Inexperienced  as 
lie  then  was  in  the  diversified  approaches  of  the  last 
messenger,  he  conceived  it  to  be  the  sound  of  his  im- 
mediate summons,  and  after  listening  to  it  several 
minutes,  he  arose  from  the  foot  of  the  bed,  on  which 
he  was  sitting,  to  take  a  nearer,  and  a  last  view  of  his 
departing  relative,  commending  his  soul,  in  silence,  to 
that  gracious  Saviour,  whom,  in  the  fulness  of  mental 
health,  he  had  delighted  to  honour.  As  he  put  aside 
the  curtain  he  opened  his  eyes  ;  but  closed  them  with- 
out speaking,  and  breathed  as  usual. 

In  the  early  part  of  Monday  the  21st,  and  indeed  till 
towards  the  hour  of  dinner,  he  appeared  to  be  dying, 
but  he  so  far  recovered  as  to  be  able  to  partake  slightly 
of  that  meal. 

The  near  approach  of  his  dissolution  became  more 
and  more  observable  in  every  succeeding  hour  of  Tues- 
day and  Wednesday. 

On  Thursday  the  weakness  was  not  at  all  diminish- 
ed ;  but  he  sat  up  as  usual  for  a  short  time  in  the  even- 
ing. 

In  the  course  of  the  night,  when  he  appeared  to  be 
exceedingly  exhausted,  some  refreshment  was  present- 
ed to  him  by  Miss  Perowne.  From  a  persuasion,  how- 
ever, that  nothing  could  ameliorate  his  feelings,  though 
without  any  apparent  impression  that  the  hand  of  death 
was  already  upon  him,  he  rejected  the  cordial  with 
these  words,  the  very  last  that  he  was  heard  to  utter, 
*'  What  can  it  signify  ?" 

At  five  in  the  morning  of  Friday  the  2bth,  a  deadly 
change  in  his  features  v/as  observed  to  take  place.  He 
remained  in  an  insensible  state  from  that  time  till  about 
five  minutes  before  five  in  the  afternoon,  when  he  ceas- 
ed to  breathe.  And  in  so  mild  and  gentle  a  manner 
did  his  spirit  take  its  flight,  that  though  the  writer  of 
this  memoir,  his  medical  attendant,  Mr.  Woods,  and 
three  other  persons,  were  standing  at  the  foot  and  side 


JOURNES^  TO  BRUNDUSIUM. 

T/iat  too  with  scanty  streams  is  fed ; 
Its  founder  was  brave  Diomed. 
Good  Varius  (ah,  that  friends  must  part :) 
Here  left  us  all  with  aching  heart, 
At  Rubi  we  arriv'd  that  day, 
Well  jaded  by  the  length  of  way, 
And  sure  poor  mortals  ne'er  were  wetter  • 
Next  day  no  weather  could  be  better ; 
No  roads  so  bad  ;  we  scarce  could  crawl 
Along  to  fishy  Barium's  wall. 
Th'  Ignatians  next,  who  by  the  rules 
Of  common  sense  are  knaves  or  fools. 
Made  all  our  sides  with  laughter  heave, 
Since  we  with  them  must  needs  believe, 
That  incense  in  their  temples  burns, 
And  without  fire  to  ashes  turns. 
To  circumcision's  bigots  tell 
Such  tales  !  for  me,  I  know  full  well, 
That  in  High  Heav'n,  unmov'd  by  care 
The  Gods  eternal  quiet  share  : 
Nor  can  I  deem  their  spleen  the  cause. 
Why  fickle  nature  breaks  her  laws. 
Brundusium  last  we  roach :  and  there 
Stop  short  the  muse  and  traveller. 
Vol.  m.  7 


( 74  '^ 
THE  NINTH  SATIRE 

OF  THE 

FIRST  BOOK  OF  HORACE. 

%  THE  DESCRIPTION  OF  AN  IMPERTINENT. 

ADAPTED  TO  THE    PRESENT    TIMES, 
1759 

Saunt'ring  along  the  street  one  day, 
On  trifles  musing  by  the  way — 
Up  steps  a  free  familiar  wight, 
(I  scarcely  knew  the  man  by  sight.) 
"  Carlos,  (he  criedj  your  hand,  my  dear  , 
Gad,  I  rejoice  to  meet  you  here  ! 
Pray  Heav'n  I  see  you  well  ?"  "  So,  so ; 
Ev'n  well  enough  as  times  now  go. 
The  same  good  wishes,  sir,  to  you." 
Finding  he  still  pursu'd  mo  close^ 
"  Sir,  you  have  business,  I  suppose.*' 
"  My  business,  sir,  is  quickly  done, 
'Tis  but  to  make  my  merit  known. 
Sir,  I  have  read" — ^'  O  learned  Sir, 
You  and  your  learning  I  revere." 
Then,  sweating  with  anxiety. 
And  sadly  longing  to  get  free, 
Gods,  how  I  scamper'd,  scuffled  for't, 
Ran,  halted,  ran  again,  stopp'd  short, 
Beckon'd  my  boy,  and  pull'd  hira  near, 
And  whisper'd  nothing  in  his  ear. 

Teas'd  with  his  loose  unjointed  chat- 
"  What  street  is  this  ?  What  house  is  that  ?" 


DESCRIPTION  OF  AN  IMPERTINENT.   75 

0  Harlow,  how  I  envied  thee 
Thy  unabash'd  effrontery, 

Who  dar'st  a  foe  with  freedom  blame, 

And  call  a  coxcomb  by  his  name ! 

When  I  return'd  him  answer  none, 

Obligingly  the  fool  ran  on, 

"  I  see  you're  dismally  distress'd, 

Would  give  the  world  to  be  releas'd. 

But,  bj'  your  leave,  sir,  I  shall  still 

Stick  to  your  skirts,  do  what  you  will 

Pray,  which  way  does  your  journey  tend  ?** 

"  O  'tis  a  tedious  way,  my  friend. 

Across  the  Thames,  the  Lord  knows  where, 

1  would  not  trouble  you  so  far." 

"  Well,  I'm  at  leisure  to  attend  you." 

"  Are  you  ?  (thought  I)  the  De'il  befriend  you." 

No  ass  with  double  panniers  rack'd, 

Opprcss'd,  o'crladen,  broken-back'd. 

E'er  look'd  a  thousandth  part  so  dull 

As  I,  nor  half  so  like  a  fool. 

"  Sir,  I  know  little  of  myself, 

(Proceeds  the  pert  conceited  elf) 

"  If  Gray  or  Mason  you  will  deem 

Than  me  more  worthy  your  esteem. 

Poems  I  write  by  folios 

As  fast  as  other  men  write  prose  ; 

Then  I  can  sing  so  loud,  so  clear. 

That  Beard  cannot  with  me  compare. 

In  dancing  too  I  all  surpass. 

Not  Cooke  can  move  with  such  a  grace.** 

Heie  I  made  shift  with  much  ado 

To  interpose  a  word  or  two. — 

"  Have  you  no  parents,  sir,  no  friends, 

Whose  welfare  on  your  own  depends  .^" 

"  Parents,  relation,  say  you  ?  No. 

They're  all  dispos'd  of  long  ago." — 

*'  Happy  to  be  no  more  perplex'd  ! 

My  fate  too  t/ireatens,  I  go  next. 


76    DESCRIPTION  OF  AN  IMPERTINENT. 
Despatch  me,  sir,  'tis  now  too  late, 
Alas  !  to  struggle  with  my  fate  ! 
Well,  I'm  convinc'd  my  time  is  come- 
When  young,  a  gipsy  told  my  doom. 
The  beldame  shook  her  palsied  head, 
As  she  perus'd  my  palm,  and  said  : 
Of  poison,  pestilence,  or  war, 
Gout,  stone  defluxion,  or  catarrh. 
You  have  no  reason  to  beware. 
Beware  the  coxcomb's  idle  prate  j 
Chie%,  my  son,  beware  of  that. 
Be  sure,  when  you  behold  him,  fly 
Out  of  all  earshot,  or  you  die." 

To  Rufus'  Hall  we  now  draw  near , 
Where  he  was  summon 'd  to  appear, 
Refute  the  charge  the  plaintiff  brought, 
Or  suffer  judgment  by  default. 
"  For  Heaven's  sake,  if  you  love  me,  wait 
One  moment !  I'll  be  with  you  straight." 
Glad  of  a  plausible  pretence — 
"  Sir,  1  must  beg  you  to  dispense 
With  my  attendance  in  the  court, 
My  legs  will  surely  suffer  for't." 
«  Nay,  prithee,  Carlos,  stop  awhile  7" 
"  Faith,  sir,  in  law  I  have  no  skill. 
Besides,  I  have  no  time  to  spare, 
I  must  be  going  you  know  where." 
"  Well,  I  protest,  I'm  doubtful  now. 
Whether  to  leave  my  suit  or  you  !" 
"  Me  without  scruple  !  (I  reply) 
Me  by  all  means,  sir  '"— "  No,  not  I. 
Mlons  Monsieur!''     'Twere  vain  (you  know) 
To  strive  \^'ith  a  victorious  foe. 
So  I  reluctantly  obey 
And  follow,  where  he  leads  the  way. 

You  and  Newcastle  are  so  close, 
Still  hand  and  glove,  sir-  -I  suppose. — 


DESCRIPTION  OF  AN  IMPERTINENT.  77 
Newcastle  (let  rae  tell  you,  sir) 
Has  not  his  equal  every  where. 
Well.     There  indeed  your  fortune's  made  , 
Faith,  sir,  you  understand  your  trade. 
Would  you  but  give  me  your  good  word ! 
Just  introduce  me  to  my  lord. 
I  should  serve  sharmingly  by  way 
Of  second  fiddle,  as  they  say  ; 
What  think  you,  sir  ?  'twere  a  good  jest, 
Slife,  we  should  quickly  scout  the  rest." — 
"  Sir,  you  mistake  the  matter  far, 
We  have  no  second  fiddles  there. — 
Richer  than  I  some  folks  may  be  ; 
More  learned,  but  it  hurts  not  me. 
Friends,  tho'  he  has  of  diff*'rent  kind, 
Each  has  his  proper  place  assign'd." 
"  Strange  matters  these  alleg'd  by  you  !"— 
"  Strange  they  may  be,  but  they  are  true."  - 
"  Well,  then,  I  vow,  'tis  mighty  clever, 
Now  I  long  ten  times  more  than  ever 
To  be  advanc'd  extremely  near 
One  of  his  shining  character. 
Have  but  the  will — there  wants  no  more 
'Tis  plain  enough  you  have  the  pow'r. 
His  easy  tempef  (that's  the  worst) 
He  knows,  and  is  so  shy  at  first. — 
But  such  a  cavalier  as  you — 
Lord,  sir,  you'll  quickly  bring  him  to  !"— 
"  Well ;  if  I  fail  in  my  design. 
Sir,  it  shall  be  no  fault  of  mine. 
If  by  the  saucy  servile  tribe 
Denied,  what  think  you  of  a  bribe  ? 
Shut  out  to-day,  not  die  with  sorrow 
Uut  try  my  lack  again  to-morro\  ' 
N  Ji'cr  iilLSiiipt  to  visit  hiia 
But  aL  iho  most  coiivenieut  lime 
A:'e;i.l  lii.ii  Oil  each  levee  day, 
4iid  there  m^  ii.j:n!jle  duty  pay  - 
7* 


DESCRIPTION  OF  AN  IMPERTINENT. 
Labour,  like  this,  our  want  supplies  ; 
And  they  must  stoop  who  mean  to  rise." 

While  thus  he  wittingly  harangued, 
For  which  you*ll  guess  I  wishM  him  hang'd 
Campley,  a  friend  of  mine,  came  by, 
Who  knew  his  humour  more  than  I. 
We  stop,  salute,  and — "  why  so  fast, 
Friend  Carlos !    Whither  all  this  haste  ?"— ^ 
Fir'd  at  the  thoughts  of  a  reprieve, 
I  pinch  him,  pull  him,  twitch  his  sleeve, 
Nod,  beckon,  bite  my  lips,  wink,  pout, 
Do  ev'ry  thing,  but  speak  plain  out : 
While  he,  sad  dog,  from  the  beginning, 
Determin'd  to  mistake  my  meaning ; 
Instead  of  pitying  my  curse. 
By  jeering  made  it  ten  times  worse. 
"  Campley,  what  secret,  (pray  !)  was  tha 
You  wanted  to  communicate  ?" 
"  I  recollect.     But  'tis  no  matter. 
Carlos,  we'll  talk  of  that  hereafter. 
E'en  let  the  secret  rest.     'Twill  tell 
Another  time,  sir,  just  as  well." 

Was  ever  such  a  dismal  day  ? 
Unlucky  cur,  he  steals  away. 
And  leaves  me,  half  bereft  of  life, 
At  mercy  of  the  butcher's  knife ; 
When  sudden,  shouting  from  afar, 
See  his  antagonist  appear  ! 
The  bailiff  seiz'd  him  quick  as  thought 
"  Ho,  Mr.  Scoundrel !  are  you  caught  r 
Sir,  you  are  witness  to  th'  arrest." 
"  Aye  marry,  sir,  I'll  do  my  best." 
The  mob  huzzas.     Away  they  trudge, 
Culprit  and  all,  before  the  judge. 
Meanwhile  I  luckily  enough 
(Thanks  to  Apollo)  got  clear  off. 


^79) 


ADDRESSED  TO  MISS 

ON  BEADING 

THE  PRAYER  FOR  INDIFFERENCE. 

[1762.*] 

And  dwells  there  in  a  female  heart, 

Bj'  bounteous  heav'n  designed 
The  choicest  raptures  to  impart. 

To  feel  the  most  refin'd — 

Dwells  there  a  wish  in  such  a  breast 

Its  nature  to  forego 
To  smother  in  ignoble  rest 

At  once  both  bliss  and  wo  ! 

Far  be  the  thought,  and  far  the  strain, 
Which  breathes  the  low  desire,  • 

Kow  sweet  soe'er  the  verse  complain, 
Though  Phoebus  string  the  lyre. 

Come  then,  fair  maid,  (in  nature  wise) 

Who,  knowing  them,  can  tell 
"From  gen'rous  sympathy  what  joys 

The  glowing  bosom  swell. 

In  justice  to  the  various  powers 

Of  pleasing,  which  you  share. 
Join  me,  amid  your  silent  hours, 

To  form  the  better  pray'r. 
'  For  Mrs.  Greville's  Ode,  see  Annual  Register,  vol.  v  p 


rp-:: 


80  ADDRESS  TO  MISS  

With  lenient  balm,  may  OhWon  hence 

To  fairy  land  be  driv'n  ; 
With  ev'ry  herb  that  blunts  the  sense 
Mankind  receiv'd  from  heav'n. 

"  Oh  !  if  ray  so v  reign  Author  please^ 

Far  be  it  from  my  fate, 
To  live,  unblest,  in  torpid  ease, 

And  slumber  on  in  state. 

Each  tender  tie  of  life  defied 

Whence  social  pleasures  spring, 
Unmov'd  with  all  the  world  beside, 

A  solitary  thing — " 

Some  Alpine  mountain,  wrapt  in  snow» 

Thus  braves  the  whirling  blast, 
Eternal  winter  doom'd  to  know, 

No  genial  spring  to  taste. 

In  vain  warm  suns  their  influence  shed, 

The  zephyrs  sport  in  vain, 
He  rears,  unchang'd,  his  barren  head, 

Whilst  bijauty  decks  the  plain. 

What  tho'  in  scaly  armour  drest, 

Indifference  may  repel 
The  shafts  of  wo — in  such  a  breast 

No  joy  can  ever  dwell. 

'Tis  woven  in  the  world's  great  plan, 

And  fix'd  by  heav'n's  decree, 
That  all  the  true  delights  of  man  | 

Should  spring  from  Sympathy. 


'Tis  nature  bids,  and  whilst  the  laws 

Of  nature  we  retain, 
Our  self-approving  bosom  draws 

A  pleasure  from  its  pain. 


ADDRESS  TO  MISS  81 

Thus  grief  itself  has  comforts  dear, 

The  sordid  never  know  ; 
An  ecstasy  attends  the  tear, 

When  virtue  bids  it  flow 

For,  when  it  streams  from  that  pure  source 

No  bribes  the  heart  can  win, 
To  check,  or  alter  from  its  course 

The  luxury  within. 

Peace  to  the  phlegm  of  sullen  elves. 

Who,  if  from  labour  eas'd. 
Extend  no  care  beyond  themselves, 

Unpleasing  and  unpleas'd. 

Let  no  low  thought  suggest  the  pray'r, 

Oh  !  grant,  kind  hcav'n,  to  me. 
Long  as  I  draw  ethereal  air. 

Sweet  Sensibility. 

Where'er  the  heavenly  nymph  is  seen, 

With  lustre-beaming  eye, 
A  train,  attendant  on  their  queen, 

(Her  rosy  chorus)  fly. 

The  jocund  Loves  in  Hymen's  band, 

With  torches  ever  bright. 
And  gcn'rous  Friendship  hand  in  hand 

With  Pity's  wat'ry  sight. 

The  gentler  virtues  too  are  join'd, 

In  youth  immortal  warm. 
The  soft  relations,  which,  combin'd, 

Give  life  her  ev'ry  charm. 

The  arts  come  smiling  in  the  close. 

And  lend  celestial  fire. 
The  marble  breathes,  the  canvass  glows, 

The  muses  sweep  the  lyre. 


82  TRANSLATION  FROM  VIRGIL 

"  Still  may  my  melting  bosom  cleave 

To  sufferings  not  my  own, 
And  still  the  sigh  responsive  heave, 

Where'er  is  heard  a  groan- 

Sj  Pity  shall  take  Virtue's  part, 

Her  natural  ally, 
And  fashioning  my  soften'd  heart, 

Prepare  it  for  the  sky." 

This  artless  vow  may  heav'n  receive, 
And  you,  fond  maid,  approve  : 

So  may  your  guiding  angel  give 
Whate'er  you  wish  or  love. 

So  may  the  rosy-finger'd  hours 

Lead  on  the  various  year, 
And  ev'ry  joy,  which  now  is  yours, 

Extend  a  larger  sphere. 

And  suns  to  come,  as  round  they  wheel 
Your  golden  moments  bless. 

With  all  a  tender  heart  can  feel, 
Or  lively  fancy  guess. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  VIRGIL, 

iENEID,  BOOK  VIII.  LINE  18. 

Thus  Italy  was  moved — nor  did  the  chief, 
iEneas,  in  his  mind  less  tumult  feel. 
On  every  side  his  anxious  thought  he  turns^ 
Restless,  unfit,  not  knowing  what  to  choose. 


TRANSLATKjN  from  VIRGIL.  83 

And  as  a  cistern  that  in  brim  of  brass 
Confines  the  crystal  flood,  if  chance  the  sun 
Smile  on  it,  or  the  moon's  resplendent  orb, 
The  quiv'ring  light  now  flashes  on  the  walls, 
Now  leaps  uncertain  to  the  vaulted  roof: 
Such  were  the  wav'ring  motions  of  his  mind. 
'Twas  night — and  weary  nature  sunk  to  rest, 
The  birds,  the  bleating  flocks  were  heard  no  more. 
At  length,  on  the  cold  ground,  beneath  the  damp 
And  dewy  vaults,  fast  by  the  river's  brink, 
The  Father  of  his  country  sought  repose. 
When  lo  !  among  the  spreading  poplar  boughs. 
Forth  from  his  pleasant  stream,  propitious  rose 
The  god  of  Tiber  :  clear  transparent  gauze 
Infolds  his  loins,  his  brows  with  reeds  are  crown'd  ; 
And  these  his  gracious  words  to  sooth  his  care  : 
*'  Heaven-born,  who  bring'st  our  kindred  home  again 
Rescued,  and  giv'st  eternity  to  Troy, 
Long  have  Laurentum  and  the  Latian  plains 
Expected  thee  ;  behold  thy  fix'd  abode. 
Fear  not  the  threats  of  war,  the  storm  is  pass'd, 
The  gods  appeas'd.     For  proof  that  what  thou  hear'st 
Is  no  vain  forgery  or  delusive  dream, 
Beneath  the  grove  that  borders  my  green  bank, 
A  milk-white  swine,  with  thirty  milk-white  young, 
Shall  greet  thy  wond'ring  eyes.    Mark  well  the  place, 
For  'tis  thy  place  of  rest :  there  end  thy  toils  : 
There,  thrice  ten  years  elaps'd,  fair  Alba's  walls 
Shall  rise,  fair  Alba,  by  Ascanius'  hand. 
Thus  shall  it  be — now  listen,  while  I  teach 
The  means  t'  accomplish  these  events  at  hand. 
Th'  Arcadians  here,  a  race  from  Pallas  sprung. 
Following  Evander's  standard  and  his  fate, 
High  on  these  mountains,  a  well  chosen  spot, 
Have  built  a  city,  for  their  Grandsire's  sake, 
Named  Pallanteum.     These,  perpetual  war 
Wage  with  the  Latians  :  join'd  in  faithful  league 
And  arms  confed'rate,  add  them  to  your  camp. 


84  TRANSLATION  FROM  VIRGIL. 

Myself,  between  my  winding  banks,  will  speed 

Your  well-oar'd  barks  to  stem  th'  opposing  tide. 

Rise,  goddess-born,  arise  ;  and  with  the  first 

Declining  stars,  seek  Juno  in  thy  pray'r, 

And  vanquish  all  her  wrath  with  suppliant  vows. 

When  conquest  crowns  thee,  then  remember  Me. 

I  am  the  Tiber,  whose  cerulean  stream 

Heav'n  favours  ;  I  with  copious  flood  divide 

These  grassy  banks,  and  cleave  the  fruitful  meads. 

My  mansion.  This — and  lofty  cities  crown 

My  fountain-head" — He  spoke  and  sought  the  deep, 

And  plung'd  his  form  beneath  the  closing  flood. 

i^neas  at  the  morning  dawn  awoke, 

And  rising,  with  uplifted  eye  beheld 

The  orient  sun,  then  dipp'd  his  palms,  and  scoop'd 

The  brimming  stream,  and  thus  address'd  the  skies ; 

"  Ye  nymphs,  Laurentian  nymphs,  who  feed  the  sourcf 

Of  many  a  stream,  and  thou,  with  thy  bless'd  flood, 

O  Tiber,  hear,  accept  me,  and  afford, 

At  length  afford,  a  shelter  from  my  woes. 

Where'er  in  secret  cavern  under  ground. 

Thy  waters  sleep,  where'er  they  spring  to  light, 

Since  thou  hast  pity  for  a  wretch  like  me, 

My  off*'rings  and  my  vows  shall  wait  thee  still. 

Great  horned  Father  of  Hesperian  floods. 

Be  gracious  now  and  ratify  thy  word." 

He  said,  and  chose  two  gallies  from  his  fleet. 

Fits  them  with  oars,  and  clothes  the  crew  in  arms, 

When  lo  !  astonishing  and  pleasing  sight, 

The  milk-white  dam,  with  her  unspotted  brood, 

Lay  stretch'd  upon  the  bank,  beneath  the  grove. 

To  thee,  the  pious  Prince,  Juno,  to  thee 

Devotes  them  all,  all  on  thine  altar  bleed. 

That  live -long  night  old  Tiber  smooth'd  his  flood, 

And  so  restrain'd  it,  that  it  seem'd  to  stand 

Motionless  as  a  pool,  or  silent  lake, 

That  not  a  billow  might  resist  their  oars. 

With  cheerful  sound  of  exhortation  soon 


TRANSLATION  FROM  VIRGIL.  85 

Their  voyage  they  begin ;  the  pitchy  keel 
Slides  through  the  gentle  deep,  the  quiet  stream 
Admires  th'  unwonted  burthen  that  it  bears, 
Well  polish 'd  arms,  and  vessels  painted  gay. 
Beneath  the  shade  of  various  trees,  between 
Th'  umbrageous  branches  of  the  spreading  grovea 
They  cut  their  liquid  way,  nor  day,  nor  night 
They  slack  their  course,  unwinding  as  they  go 
The  long  meanders  of  the  peaceful  tide. 

The  glowing  sun  was  in  meridian  height, 
When  from  afar  they  saw  the  humble  walls, 
And  the  few  scatter'd  cottages,  which  now 
The  Roman  pow'r  has  equall'd  with  the  clouds ', 
But  such  was  then  Evander's  scant  domain, 
"l^hey  steer  to  shore,  and  hasten  to  the  town. 

It  chanc'd  th'  Arcadian  monarch  on  that  day, 
Before  the  walls,  beneath  a  shady  grove, 
Was  celebrating  high,  in  solemn  feast, 
Alcides  and  his  tutelary  gods. 
Pallas,  his  son,  was  there,  and  there  the  chief 
Of  all  his  youth  ;  with^ these,  a  worthy  tribe, 
His  poor  but  venerable  senate,  burnt 
Sweet  incense,  and  their  altars  smok'd  with  blood. 
Soon  as  they  saw  the  tow'ring  masts  approach. 
Sliding  between  the  trees,  while  the  crew  rest 
Upon  their  silent  oars,  amazed  they  rose, 
Not  without  fear,  and  all  forsook  the  feast. 
But  Pallas'  undismayed,  his  jav'lin  seiz*d, 
Rush'd  to  the  bank,  and  from  a  rising  ground 
Forbad  them  to  disturb  the  sacred  rites. 
"  Ye  stranger  youth  !  What  prompts  you  to  explore 
This  untried  way  ?  and  whither  do  ye  steer .? 
Whence,  and  who  are  ye  ?  Bring  ye  peace  or  war  ?" 
iEneas  from  his  lofty  deck  holds  forth 
The  peaceful  olive-branch,  and  thus  replies  . 
"  Trojans,  and  enemies  to  the  Latian  state, 
Whom  they  with  unprovok'd  hostilities 
Have  driv'n  away,  thou  see'st.    We  seek  Evander— 

Vol.  in.  8 


86  TRANSLATION  FROM  VIRGII . 

Say  this — and  say,  besides,  the  Trojan  chiefs 

Are  come,  and  seek  his  friendship  and  his  aid." 

Pallas  with  wonder  heard  that  awful  name, 

And  "  whosoe'er  thou  art,"  he  cried,  "  come  forth  ; 

Bear  thine  own  tidings  to  my  Father's  ear, 

And  be  a  welcome  guest  beneath  our  roof." 

He  said,  and  press'd  the  stranger  to  his  breast  : 

Then  led  him  from  the  river  to  the  grove, 

Where,  courteous,  thus  iEneas  greets  the  king : 

"  Best  of  the  Grecian  race,  to  whom  I  bow 

(So  wills  my  fortune)  suppliant,  and  stretch  forth 

In  sign  of  amity  this  peaceful  branch. 

I  fear'd  thee  not,  although  I  knew  thee  well 

A  Grecian  leader,  born  in  Arcady, 

And  kinsman  of  th'  Atridse.     Me  my  virtue, 

That  means  no  wrong  to  thee — the  Oracles, 

Our  kindred  families  alliedrof  old. 

And  thy  renown  diffus'd  through  ev'ry  land. 

Have  all  conspired  to  bind  in  friendship  to  thee, 

And  send  me  not  unwilling  to  thy  shores. 

Dardanus  author  of  the  Trojan  state, 

(So  say  the  Greeks,)  was  fair  Electra's  son  ; 

Electra  boasted  Atlas  for  her  sire. 

Whose  shoulders  high  sustain  th'  ethereal  orbs. 

Your  sire  is  Mercury,  whom  Maia  bore, 

Sweet  Maia,  on  Cyllene's  hoary  top. 

Her,  if  we  credit  aught  tradition  old, 

Atlas  of  yore,  the  self-same  Atlas,  claim'd 

His  daughter.     Thus  united  close  in  blood, 

Thy  race  and  ours  one  common  sire  confess. 

With  these  credentials  fraught,  I  would  not  send  ;' 

Ambassadors  with  artful  phrase  to  sound, 

And  win  thee1)y  degrees — ^but  came  myself — 

Me,  therefore,  me  thou  see'st ;  my  life  th©  stake 

'Tis  I,  ^noas,  who  implore  thine  aid. 

Should  Daunia,  that  now  aims  the  blow  at  thee, 

Prevail  to  conquer  us,  nought  then,  they  thinl 

Wjl)  hinder,  but  Hesperia  must  be  theirs, 


TRANSLATION  FROM  \' IRGIL.  87 

All  theirs,  from  th'  upper  to  the  nether  sea. 
Take  then  our  friendship,  and  return  us  thine. 
We  too  have  courage,  we  have  noble  minds, 
And  youth  well  tried,  and  exercis'd  in  arms." 

Thus  spoke  ^neas — He  with  fix'd  regard 
Survey'd  him  speaking,  features,  form,  and  mien. 
Then  briefly  thus — "  Thou  noblest  of  thy  name, 
How  gladly  do  I  take  thee  to  my  heart, 
How  gladly  thus  confess  thee  for  a  friend ; 
In  thee  I  trace  Anchises  ;  his  thy  speech, 
Thy  voice,  thy  count'nance.     For  I  well  remembei 
Many  a  day  since,  when  Priam  journey 'd  forth 
To  Salamis,  to  see  the  land  where  dwelt 
Hesione,  his  sister,  he  push'd  on 
E'en  to  Arcadia's  frozen  bounds.     'Twas  then 
The  bloom,  of  youth  was  glowing  on  my  cheek  j 
Much  I  admired  the  Trojan  chiefs,  and  much 
Their  king,  the  son  of  great  Laomedon, 
But  most  Anchises,  tow'ring  o'er  them  all. 
A  youthful  longing  seiz'd  me  to  accost 
The  hero,  and  embrace  him  ;  I  drew  near, 
And  gladly  led  him  to  the  walls  of  Pheneus. 
Departing,  he  distinguish'd  me  with  gifts, 
A  costly  quiver  stored  with  Lycian  darts, 
A  robe  inwove  with  gold,  with  gold  emboss'd, 
Two  bridles,  those  which  Pallas  uses  now. 
The  friendly  league  thou  hast  solicited 
I  give  thee  therefore,  and  to-morrow  all 
My  chosen  youth  shall  wait  on  your  return. 
Meanwhile,  since  thus  in  friendship  ye  are  come, 
Rejoice  with  us,  and  join  to  celebrate 
These  annual  rites,  which  may  not  be  delay'd, 
And  be  at  once  familiar  at  our  board." 

He  said,  and  bade  replace  the  feast  removed  ; 
Himself  upon  a  grassy  bank  disposed 
The  crew,  but  for  ^neas  order'd  forth 
A  couch,  spread  with  a  lion's  tawny  shag. 
And  bade  him  share  the  honours  of  his  throne. 


68  TRANSLATION  FROM  VIRGlt.. 

Til'  appointed  youth  with  glad  alacrity 
A-Ssist  the  lab'ring  priest  to  load  the  board 
With  roasted  entrails  of  the  slaughtered  beeves, 
Well  kneaded  bread  and  mantling  bowls.  Well  pleas\l 
^neas  and  the  Trojan  youth  regale 
On  the  huge  length  of  a  well-pastur'd  chine. 
Hunger  appeas'd,  and  tables  all  despatcli'd, 
Thus  spake  Evander  :  '•  Superstition  here, 
In  this  our  solemn  feasting,  has  no  part. 
No,  Trojan  friend,  from  utmost  danger  sav'd, 
In  gratitude  this  worship  we  renew. 
Behold  that  rock  which  nods  above  the  vale, 
Those  bulks  of  broken  stone  dispers'd  around, 
How  desolate  the  shatter'd  cave  appears, 
And  what  a  ruin  spreads  th'  encumber'd  plain. 
Within  this  pile,  but  far  within,  was  once 
The  den  of  Cacus  ;  dire  his  hateful  form, 
That  shunn'd  the  day,  half  monster  and  half  man. 
Blood  newly  shed  stream 'd  ever  on  the  ground 
Smoking,  and  many  a  visage  pale  and  wan 
Nail'd  at  his  gate,  hung  hideous  to  the  sight. 
Vulcan  begot  the  brute  :  vast  was  his  size, 
And  from  his  throat  he  belch'd  his  father's  fires. 
But  the  day  came  that  brought  us  what  we  wish  d, 
Th'  assistance  and  the  presence  of  a  God. 
Flush'd  with  his  vict'ry  and  the  spoils  he  won 
From  triple-form'd  Geryon,  lately  slain, 
The  great  avenger,  Hercules  appear'd. 
Hither  he  drove  his  stately  bulls,  and  pour'd 
His  herds  along  the  vale.     But  the  sly  thief 
Cacus,  that  nothing  might  escape  his  hand 
Of  villany  or  fraud,  drove  from  the  stalls 
Four  of  the  lordliest  of  his  bulls,  and  four 
The  fairest  of  his  heifers;  by  the  tail 
He  dragg'd  them  to  his  den,  and  there  conceil'd, 
No  footstep  might  betray  the  dark  abode. 
And  now  his  herd  with  provender  sufficed 
Alcidos  would  be  gone  ;  they  as  they  went 


'-^'^^ 


TRANSLATION  FROM  VIRGIL.         i 
Still  bellowing  loud,  made  the  deep  echoing  woods> 
And  distant  hills  resound  :  when  hark  !  one  ox, 
Imprison'd  close  within  the  vast  recess, 
Lows  in  return,  and  frustrates  all  his  hope. 
Then  fury  seiz'd  Alcides,  and  his  breast 
With  indignation  heav'd ;  grasping  his  club 
Of  knotted  oak,  swift  to  the  mountain  top 
He  ran,  he  flew.     Then  first  was  Cacus  seea 
To  tremble,  and  his  eyes  bespoke  his  fears. 
Swift  as  an  eastern  blast  he  sought  his  den, 
And  dread  increasing,  wing'd  him  as  he  went. 
Drawn  up  in  iron  slings  above  the  gate 
A  rock  was  hung  enormous.     Such  his  haste, 
He  burst  the  chains,  and  dropp'd  it  at  the  door, 
Then  grappled  it  with  iron  work  within 
Of  bolts  and  bars  by  Vulcan's  art  contriv'd. 
Scarce  was  he  fast,  when  panting  for  revenge 
Came  Hercules ;  he  gnash'd  his  teeth  with  rage, 
And  quick  as  lightning  glanc'd  his  eyes  around 
In  quest  of  entrance.     Fiery  red,  and  stung 
With  indignation,  thrice  he  wheel'd  his  course 
About  the  mountain ;  thrice,  but  thrice  in  vain, 
He  strove  to  force  the  quarry  at  the  gate. 
And  thrice  sat  down  o'erwearied  in  the  vale. 
There  stood  a  pointed  rock,  abrupt  and  rude 
That  high  o'erlook'd  the  rest,  close  at  the  back 
Of  the  fell  monster's  den,  where  birds  obscene 
Of  ominous  note  resorted,  choughs  and  daws. 
This,  as  it  lean'd  obliquely  to  the  left, 
Threat'ning  the  stream  below,  he  fyom  the  right 
Push'd  with  his  utmost  strength,  and  to  and  fro 
He  shook  the  mass,  loos'ning  its  lowest  base  ; 
Then  shov'd  it  from  its  seat ;  down  fell  the  pile  j 
Sky  thunder'd  at  the  fall ;  the  banks  give  way, 
Th'  aifrighted  stream  flows  upward  to  his  source 
Behold  the  kennel  of  the  brute  expos'd, 
The  gloomy  vault  laid  open,     So,  if  chance 


J)0  TRANSLATION  FROM  VUIGIL. 

Earth  yawning  to  the  centre  should  disclose 

The  mansions,  the  pale  mansions  of  the  dead, 

Loath'd  by  the  Gods,  such  would  the  gulf  appear^ 

And  the  ghosts  tremble  at  the  sight  of  day. 

The  monster  braying  with  unusual  din 

Within  his  hollow  lair,  and  sore  amaz'd 

To  see  such  sudden  inroads  of  the  light, 

Alcides  press'd  him  close  with  what  at  hand 

Lay  readiest,  stumps  of  trees,  and  fragments  huge 

Of  millstone  size.     He,  (for  escape  was  none) 

Wondrous  to  tell  I  forth  from  his  gorge  discharg'd 

A  smoky  cloud  that  darken'd  all  the  den ;. 

Wreath  after  wreath  he  vomited  amain 

The  smoth'ring  vapour,  mix'd  with  fiery  sparks. 

No  sight  could  penetrate  the  veil  obscure. 

The  hero,  more  provoked,  endur'd  not  this, 

But,  with  a  headlong  leap,  he  rushed  to  where 

The  thickest  cloud  envelop'd  his  abode. 

There  grasp'd  he  Cacus,  spite  of  all  his  fires, 

Till  crush'd  within  his  arms,  the  monster  shows 

His  bloodless  throat,  now  dry  with  panting  hard. 

And  his  press'd  eyeballs  start.     Soon  he  tears  down 

The  barricade  of  rock  ;  the  dark  abyss 

Lies  open,  and  th'  imprison'd  bulls,  the  theft 

He  had  with  oaths  denied,  are  brought  to  light : 

By  th'  heels  the  miscreant  carcass  is  dragg'd  forth. 

His  face,  his  eyes,  all  terrible,  his  breast 

Beset  with  bristles,  and  his  sooty  jaws 

Are  view'd  with  wonder  never  to  be  cloy'd. 

Hence  the  celebrity  thou  seest,  and  hence 

This  festal  day,  Potitius  first  enjoin'd 

Posterity  these  solemn  rites,  he  fir^c 

With  those  who  bear  the  great  Pinarian  name 

To  Hercules  devoted,  in  the  grove 

This  altar  built,  deem'd  sacred  in  the  highest 

By  us,  and  sacred  ever  to  be  deem'd. 

Come  then,  my  friends,  and  bind  your  youthful  browt 


TRANSLATION  FROM  VIRGIL  91 

In  praise  of  such  deliv'rance,  and  hold  forth 
The  brimming  cup  :  your  deities  and  ours 
Are  now  the  same  ;  then  drink,  and  freely  too. 
So  saying,  he  twisted  round  his  rev'rend  locks 
A  variegated  poplar  wreath,  and  fill'd 
His  right  hand  with  a  consecrated  bowl. 
At  once  all  pour  libations  on  the  board. 
All  offer  pray'r.     And  now  the  radiant  sphere 
Of  day  descending,  eventide  drew  near. 
When  first  Potitius  with  the  priests  advanc'd, 
Begirt  with  skins,  and  torches  in  their  hands. 
High  piled  with  meats  of  sav'ry  taste,  they  rangeo 
The  chargers,  and  renewed  the  grateful  feast. 
Then  came  the  Salii,  crown'd  with  poplar  too 
Circling  the  blazing  altars  ;  here  the  youth 
Advanced,  a  choir  harmonious  ;  there  were  heard 
The  rev'rend  seers  responsive  ;  praise  they  sung, 
Much  praise  in  honour  of  Alcides'  deeds  ; 
How  first,  with  infant  gripe,  two  serpents  huge 
He  strangled,  sent  from  Juno  ;  next  they  sung, 
How  Troja  and  the  Oechalia  he  destroyed. 
Fair  cities  both,  and  many  a  toilsome  task 
Beneath  Eurystheus,  (so  his  step-dame  will'd) 
Achiev'd  victorious.     Thou,  the  cloud-born  pair, 
Hylasus  fierce  and  Pholos,  monstrous  twins. 
Thou  slew'st  the  Minotaur,  the  plague  of  Crete, 
And  the  vast  lion  of  the  Nemean  rock. 
Thee  Hell,  and  Cerberus,  Hell's  porter,  fear'd, 
Stretch'd  in  his  den  upon  his  half-gnaw'd  bones. 
Thee  no  abhorred  form,  not  e'en  the  vast 
Typhoeus  could  appal,  though  clad  in  arms. 
Hail,  true  born  son  of  Jove,  among  the  Gods 
At  length  enroll'd,  nor  least  illustrious  thou, 
Haste  thee  propitious,  and  approve  our  songs  j" 
1'hus  hymn'd  the  chorus  ;  above  all  they  sing 
The  cave  of  Cacus,  and  the  flames  he  breath'd. 
The  whole  grove  echoes,  and  the  hills  rebcund. 


92  TRANSLATION  FROM  VIRGIL. 

The  rites  perform'd  all  hasten  to  tlie  town. 
The  king,  bending  with  age,  held  as  he  went 
^neas  and  his  Pallas  by  the  hand, 

Vith  much  vativsty  of  pleasing  talk 
Short'ning  the  way.     ^neas,  with  a  smile, 
Looks  round  him,  charm'd  with  the  delightful  scent 
And  many  a  question  asks,  and  much  he  learns 
Of  h&roes  far  renown'd  in  ancient  times. 
Then  spake  Evander.     These  extensive  groves 
Were  once  inhabited  by  fawns  and  nymphs 
Produced  beneath  their  shades,  and  a  rude  race 

>f  men,  the  progeny  uncouth  of  elms 
And  knotted  oaks.     They  no  refinement  knew 
Of  laws  or  manners  civilized,  to  yoke 
The  steer,  with  forecast  provident  to  store 
'~''ae  hoarded  grain,  or  manage  what  they  had, 
tint  browsed  like  beasts  upon  the  leafy  boughs, 
Or  fed  voracious  on  their  hunted  prey. 
An  exile  from  Olympus,  and  expell'd 
His  native  realm  by  thunder-bearing  Jove, 
First  Saturn  came.     He  from  the  mountains  drew 
'^his  herd  of  men  untractable  and  fierce, 

nd  gave  them  laws  ;  and  call'd  his  hiding-place, 

nis  growth  of  forests,  Latium.     Such  the  peace 
His  land  possess'd,  the  golden  age  was  then, 
So  fam'd  in  story  :  till  by  slow  degrees 
Far  other  times,  and  of  far  diflPrent  hue, 
Succeeded  thirst  of  gold  and  thirst  of  blood. 
Then  came  Ausonian  bands,  and  armed  nosts 
From  Sicily,  and  Latium  often  changed 
Her  master  and  her  name.     At  length  arose 
Kings,  of  whom  Tibris  of  gjgantick  form 
Was  chief,  and  we  Italians  since  have  call'd 
The  river  by  his  name  ;  thus  Albula 
(So  was  the  country  call'd  in  ancient  days) 
Was  quite  forgot.     Me  from  my  native  land 
An  exile,  thro'  the  dang 'reus  ocean  driv'n^ 


TRANSLATION  FROM  VIRGU^.  93 

Resistless  fortune  and  relentless  fate 
Placed  where  thou  see'st  me.     Phoebus,  and 
The  nymph  Carmentis,  with  maternal  care, 
Attendant  on  my  wand'rings,  fix'd  me  here. 

[Ten  lines  omitted.] 

He  said,  and  show'd  him  the  Tarpeian  rock. 
And  the  rude  spot,  where  now  the  capitol 
Stands  all  magnificent  and  bright  with  gold, 
Then  overgrown  with  thorns.     And  yet  e'en  then 
The  swains  beheld  that  sacred  scene  with  awe  ; 
The  grove,  the  rock,  inspired  religious  fear. 
This  grove,  he  said,  that  crowns  the  lofty  top 
Of  this  fair  hill,  some  deity,  we  know. 
Inhabits,  but  what  deity  we  doubt. 
Th'  Arcadians  speak  of  Jupiter  himself, 
That  they  have  often  seen  him,  shaking  here 
His  gloomy  iEgis,  while  the  thunder-storms 
Came  rolling  all  around  him.     Turn  thy  eyes, 
Behold  that,  ruin  ;  those  dismantled  walls, 
Where  once  two  towns,  laniculum — 
By  Janus  this,  and  that  by  Saturn  built, 
Saturnia.     Such  discourse  brought  them  beneath 
The  roof  of  poor  Evander,  thence  they  saw, 
Where  now  tne  proud  and  stately  forum  stands, 
The  grazing  herds  wide  scatter'd  o'er  the  field. 
Soon  as  he  enter 'd — Hercules* he  said. 
Victorious  Hercules,  on  this  threshold  trod, 
These  walls  contain'd  him,  humble  as  they  are 
Dare  to  despise  magnificence,  my  friend. 
Prove  thy  divine  descent  by  worth  divine, 
Nor  view  with  haughty  scorn  this  mean  abode. 
So  saying,  he  led  ^neas  by  the  hand, 
And  plac'd  him  on  a  cushion  stufTd  with  leaves, 
Spread  with  the  skin  of  a  Libistian  bear. 

[The  Episode  of  Venus  and  Vulcan  omitted} 


94  TRANSLATION  FROM  O^  D. 

Wliile  thus  in  Lemnos  Vulcan  was  employed 
Awaken'cl  by  the  gentle  dawn  of  day, 
And  the  shrill  song  of  birds  beneath  the  eavei 
Of  his  low  mansion,  old  Evander  rose. 
His  tunick,  and  the  sandals  on  his  feet, 
And  his  good  sword  well-girded  to  his  side, 
A  panther's  skin  dependent  from  his  left, 
And  over  his  right  shoulder  thrown  aslant, 
Thus  was  he  clad.     Two  mastiffs  followed  him, 
His  whole  retinue  and  his  nightly  guard. 


OVID.  TRIST.  LIB.  V.  ELEG.  XII 

Scribisy  lit  ollectem. 

You  bid  me  write  t'amuse  the  tedious  hours, 
And  save  from  with'ring  my  poetick  pow'rs. 
Hard  is  the  task,  my  friend,  for  verse  should  fiov 
From  the  free  mind,  not  fetter'd  down  by  wo ; 
Restless  amidst  unceasing  tempests  tost, 
Whoe'er  has  cause  for  sorrow,  I  have  most. 
Would  you  bid  Priam  laugh,  his  sons  all  slain, 
Or  childless  Niobe  from«tears  refrain, 
Join  the  gay  dance,  and  lead  the  festive  traim  * 
Does  grief  or  study  most  befit  the  mind, 
To  this  remote,  this  barb'rous  nook  confin'd  ^ 
Could  you  impart  to  my  unshaken  breast, 
The  fortitude  by  Socrates  possess'd. 
Soon  would  it  sink  beneath  such  woes  as  mine, 
For  what  is  human  strength  to  wrath  divine  .? 
Wise  as  he  was,  and  Heav'n  pronounc'd  him  so. 
My  suff*rings  would  have  laid  that  wisdom  low. 
Could  I  forget  my  country,  thee  and  all, 
And  e'en  th'  offence  to  which  1  owe  my  fall, 


TRANSLATION  FROM  OVID.  9i 

\et  fear  alono  would  freeze  the  poets  vein, 
While  hostile  troops  swarm  o'er  the  dreary  plain 
Add  that  the  fatal  rust  of  long  disuse 
Unfits  me  for  the  service  of  the  muse. 
Thistles  and  weeds  are  all  we  can  expect 
From  the  best  soil  impov'risb'd  by  neglect ; 
Unoxercis'd,  and  to  his  stall  confin'd, 
The  fleetest  racer  would  be  left  behind  ; 
The  best  built  bark  that  cleaves  the  wat'ry  way, 
Laid  useless  by,  would  moulder  and  decay — 
No  hope  remains  that  time  shall  me  restore, 
Mean  as  I  was,  to  what  I  was  before. 
Think  how  a  series  of  desponding  cares 
Benumbs  the  genius,  and  its  force  impairs. 
How  oft,  as  now  on  this  devoted  sheet. 
My  verse  constrain'd  to  move  with  measur'd  feet, 
Reluctant  and  laborious  limps  along. 
And  proves  itself  a  wretched  exile's  song. 
What  is  it  tunes  the  most  melodious  lays  ? 
'Tis  emulation  and  the  thirst  of  praise, 
A  noble  thirst,  and  not  unknown  to  me, 
While  smoothly  v/afted  on  a  calmer  sea. 
But  can  a  wretch  like  Ovid  pant  for  fame  r 
No,  rather  let  the  world  forget  my  name. 
Is  it  because  that  world  approv'd  my  strain, 
You  prompt  me  to  the  same  pursuit  again  .'' 
No,  let  the  Nine  th'  ungrateful  truth  excuse, 
^  euarge  my  hopeless  ruin  on  the  Muse, 
And,  like  Perillus,  meet  my  just  desert, 
The  victim. of  my  own  pernicious  art. 
Fool  that  I  was,  to  be  so  warn'd  in  vain, 
And  shipwreck'd  once  to  tempt  the  deep  again 
111  fares  the  bard  in  this  unletter'd  land. 
None  to  consult,  and  none  to  understand. 
The  purest  verse  has  no  admirers  here. 
Their  own  rude  language  only  suits  their  ear 
Rude  as  it  is,  at  length  familiar  grown, 
I  learn  it,  and  almost  unlearn  mv  own — 


96     A  TALE,  FOUNDED  ON  FACT. 

Yet  to  say  truth,  e'en  here  the  Muse  disdains 
Confinement,  and  attempts  her  former  strains, 
But  finds  the  strong  desire  is  not  the  pow'r. 
And  what  her  taste  condemns,  the  flames  devour. 
A  part,  perhaps,  like  this,  escapes  the  doom, 
And  tho'  unworthy,  finds  a  friend  at  Rome. 
But  oh  the  cruel  art,  that  could  undo 
Its  vot'ry  thus,  would  that  could  perish  too  . 


A  TALE, 
FOUNDED  ON  A  FACT. 

WHICH    HAPPENED  IN  JANUARY,  1799. 

Where  Humber  pours  his  rich  commercial  stream, 

There  dwelt  a  wretch  who  breath'd  but  to  blaspheme 

In  subterraneous  caves  his  life  he  led, 

Black  as  the  mine  in  which  he  wrought  for  bread. 

When  on  a  day  emerging  from  the  deep, 

A  sabbath-day,  (such  sabbaths  thousands  keep  !) 

The  wages  of  his  weekly  toil  he  bore 

To  buy  a  cock — whose  blood  might  win  him  more  ' 

As  if  the  noblest  of  the  feather'd  kind 

Were  but  for  battle  and  for  death  design'd  ; 

As  if  the  consecrated  hours  were  meant 

For  sport,  to  minds  on  cruelty  intent ; 

It  chanc'd  (such  chances  Providence  obey) 

He  met  a  fellow-lab'rer  on  the  way. 

Whose  heart  the  same  desires  had  once  inflamed  ; 

T?ut  now  the  savage  temper  was  reclaim'd. 


A  TALE,  FOUNDED  ON  FACT.     97 

Persuasion  on  his  lips  had  taken  place  ; 
For  all  plead  well,  who  plead  the  cause  of  grace. 
His  iron-heart  with  scripture  he  assail'd, 
Woo'd  him  to  hear  a  sermon,  and  prevail'd 
His  faithful  bow  the  mighty  preacher  drew, 
Swift,  as  the  lightning-glimpse,  the  arrow  flew. 
He  wept ;  he  trembled  ;  cast  his  eyes  around, 
To  find  a  worse  than  he  ;  but  none  he  found. 
He  felt  his  sins,  and  wondered  he  should  feel, 
Grace  made  the  wound,  and  grace  alone  could  heal. 

Now  farewell  oaths,  and  blasphemies,  and  lies  '. 
He  quits  the  sinner's  for  the  martyr's  prize. 
Thot  holy  day  which  wash'd  with  many  a  tear. 
Gilded  with  hope,  yet  shaded  too  by  fear. 
The  next,  his  swarthy  brethren  of  the  mine 
Learn'd,  by  his  alter'd  speech — the  change  divine  ! 
Laugh'd  when  they  should  have  wept,  and  swore  the 

day 
"Was  nigh,  when  he  would  swear  as  fast  as  they. 
"  No,  (said  the  penitent,)  such  words  shall  share 
This  breath  no  more  ;  devoted  now  to  pray'r. 
O  !  if  thou  see'st  (thine  eye  the  future  sees) 
That  I  shall  yet  again  blaspheme  like  these ; 
Now  strike  me  to  the  ground  on  which  I  kneel. 
Ere  yet  this  heart  relapses  into  steel ; 
Now  take  me  to  that  Heaven  I  once  defied, 
Thy  presence,  thy  embrace  I" — He  spoke  and  died  ' 

Vol.  hi.  9 


( 98 ; 

TRANSLATION 

OF    A 

SIMILE  IN  PARADISE  LOST. 

IJunCy  1780. 

»*  So  when  J  from  mountain  topsy  the  dusky  clouds 
"  Ascending,  4^c." 

Quales  aerii  mentis  de  vertice  nubes 

Cum  surgunt,  et  jam  Boreas  tumida  ora  quierunt, 

Coelum  hilares  abdit,  spissa  caligine,  vultus : 

Turn  si  jucundo  tandem  sol  prodeat  ore, 

Et  croceo  montes  et  pascua  lumine  tingat, 

Gaudent  omnia,  aves  mulcent  concentibus  agros, 

Balatuque  ovium  coUes  vallesque  resultant. 


TRANSLATION 

OF 

DRYDEN'S  EPIGRAM  ON  MILTON 

*•  Three  Poets,  in  three  distant  ages  horn,  SfC  " 
[July,  1780.] 

Tres  tiia,  sed  longe  distantia,  sascula  vates 
Ostentant  tribus  e  gentibus  eximios 

GrsBcia  sublimem,  cum  maj estate  disertum 
Roma  tulit,  felix  Anglia  utrique  parem. 

Partubus  ex  binis  Natura  exhausta,  coacta  est> 
Tortius  ut  fieret,  consociaic  duos. 


{9d  ) 
TO  THE  REV.  MR.  NEWTON 

ON  HIS  RETURN  FROM    RAMSGATE. 
[Oct.  1780.] 

That  ocean  you  have  late  survey'd, 

Those  rocks  I  too  have  seen, 
But  I  afllicted  and  dismay'd, 

You  tranquil  and  serene. 

You  from  the  flood-controlling  steep 
Saw  stretch'd  before  your  view, 

With  conscious  joy,  the  threat'ning  deep, 
No  longer  such  to  you. 

To  me,  the  waves  that  ceaseless  broke 

Upon  the  dang'rous  coast. 
Hoarsely  and  ominously  spoke 

Of  all  my  treasure  lost. 

Your  sea  of  troubles  you  have  past, 
And  found  the  peaceful  shore  ; 

1,  tempest  toss'd,  and  wreck'd  at  last, 
Come  home  to  port  no  more. 


LOVE  ABUSED. 

What  is  there  in  the  vale  of  life 

Half  so  delightful  as  a  wife, 

When  friendship,  love,  and  peace  combine 

To  stamp  the  marriage  bond  divine  .•* 


100        AN  EPJSTLE  TO  LADY  AUSTEN. 
The  stream  of  pure  and  geniune  love 
Derives  its  current  from  above  ; 
And  earth  a  second  Eden  shows^ 
Where'er  the  healing  water  flows  ; 
But  ah,  if  from  the  dykes  and  drains 
Of  sensual  nature's  fev'rish  veins, 
Lust,  like  a  lawless  headstrong  flood, 
Impregnated  with  ooze  and  mud, 
Descending  fast  on  every  side, 
Once  mingles  with  the  sacred  tide. 
Farewell  the  soul-enliv'ning  scene  * 
The  banks  that  wore  a  smiling  green, 
With  rank  defilement  overspread, 
Bev/ail  their  flow'ry  beauties  dead. 
The  stream  polluted,  dark,  and  dull, 
Diflus'd  into  a  Stygian  pool. 
Through  life's  last  melancholy  years 
Is  fed  with  overflowing  tears : 
Complaints  supply  the  zephyr's  part. 
And  sighs  that  heave  a  breaking  heart. 


A  POETICAL  EPISTLE  TO  LADY 
AUSTEN. 

Dec.  17, 178L 

Dear  Anna — between  friend  and  fritjnd, 
Prose  answers  every  common  end  ; 
Serves,  in  a  plain  and  homely  way, 
T'  express  th'  occurrence  of  the  day ; 
Our  health,  the  weather,  and  the  news ; 
What  walks  we  take,  what  books  we  chooio^ 
And  all  the  floating  thoughts  we  find 
Upon  the  surface  of  the  mind. 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  LADY  AUSTEN.       101 

But  when  a  poet  takes  the  pen, 
Far  more  alive  than  other  men, 
He  feels  a  gentle  tingling  come 
Down  to  his  finger  and  his  thumb, 
Deriv'd  from  nature's  noblest  part, 
The  centre  of  a  glowing  heart ; 
And  this  is  what  the  world,  who  knows 
No  flights  above  the  pitch  of  prose, 
His  more  sublime  vagaries  slighting, 
Denominates  an  itch  for  writing. 
No  wonder  I,  who  scribble  rhyme 
To  catch  the  triflers  of  the  time, 
And  tell  them  truths  divine  and  clear. 
Which,  couch'd  in  prose,  they  will  not  hear ; 
Who  labour  hard  to  allure  and  draw 
The  loiterers  I  never  saw, 
Should  f^l  that  itching,  and  that  tingling 
With  all  my  purpose  intermingling, 
To  your  intrinsick  merit  true, 
When  call'd  t'  address  myself  to  you. 

Mysterious  are  his  ways,  whose  ix^wer 
Brings  forth  that  unexpected  hour 
When  minds,  that  never  met  before, 
Shall  meet,  unite,  and  part  no  more  : 
It  is  the  allotment  of  the  skies, 
The  hand  of  the  Supremely  Wise, 
That  guides  and  governs  our  affections. 
And  plans  and  orders  our  connexions  ; 
Directs  us  in  our  distant  road. 
And  marks  the  bounds  of  our  abode. 
Thus  we  were  settled  when  you  found  vm, 
Peasants  and  children  all  around  us, 
Not  dreaming  of  so  dear  a  friend, 
Deep  in  the  abyss  of  Silver-End.* 

•  An  obscure  part  of  Olney,  adjoiniiig  to  the  resiocnce  of 
Cowper,  which  faced  the  market-place 
9» 


102       AN  EPISTLE  TO  LADY  AUSTEN 
Thus  Martha,  e'en  against  her  will, 
Perch'd  on  the  top  of  yonder  hill ; 
And  you,  though  you  must  needs  prefer 
The  fairest  scenes  of  sweet  Sancerre,* 
Are  come  from  distant  Loire,  to  choose 
A  cottage  on  the  banks  of  Ouse. 
This  page  of  Providence  quite  new, 
And  now  just  op'ning  to  our  view, 
Employs  our  present  thoughts  and  pains 
To  guess,  and  spell,  what  it  contains ; 
But  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year, 
Will  make  the  dark  enigma  clear  ; 
And  furnish  us,  perhaps,  at  last, 
Like  other  scenes  already  past, 
With  proof,  that  we,  and  our  affairs^ 
Are  part  of  a  Jehovah's  cares : 
For  God  unfolds,  by  slow  degrees, 
The  purport  of  his  deep  decrees ; 
Sheds  every  hour  a  clearer  light 
In  aid  of  our  defective  sight ; 
And  spreads  at  length  before  the  soul 
A  beautiful  and  perfect  whole, 
Which  busy  man's  inventive  brain 
Toils  to  anticipate,  in  vain. 

Say,  Anna,  had  you  never  known 
The  beauties  of  a  rose  full  blown, 
Could  you,  tho*  luminous  your  eye 
By  looking  on  the  bud,  descry. 
Or  guess,  with  a  prophetick  power, 
The  future  splendour  of  the  flower  ? 
Just  so,  th'  Omnipotent  who  turns 
The  system  of  a  world's  concerns, 
From  mere  minutiae  can  educe 
Events  of  most  important  use  ; 
And  bid  a  dawning  sky  display 
The  blaze  of  a  meridian  day. 

*  Lady  Austen's  residence  in  France 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  LADY  AUSTEN.       103 
The  works  of  man  lend,  one  and  all, 
As  needs  they  must,  from  great  to  small , 
And  vanity  absorbs  at  length 
The  monuments  of  human  strength. 
But  who  can  tell  how  vofst  the  plan. 
Which  this  day's  incident  began  ! 
Too  small,  perhaps,  the  slight  occasion, 
For  our  dim-sighted  observation  ; 
It  pass'd  unnotic'd,  as  the  bird 
That  cleaves  the  yielding  air  unheard, 
And  yet  may  prove,  when  understood, 
An  harbinger  of  endless  good. 

Not  that  I  deem,  or  mean  to  call 
Friendship  a  blessing  cheap  or  sinall . 
But  merely  to  remark,  tliat  ours. 
Like  soine  of  nature's  sweetest  flowers, 
Rose  from  a  seed  of  tiny  size. 
That  seem'd  to  promise  no  such  prize  ) 
A  transient  visit  intervening, 
And  made  almost  without  a  meaning, 
(Hardly  the  effect  of  inclination. 
Much  less  of  pleasing  expectation,) 
Produc'd  a  friendship,  then  begun, 
That  has  cemented  us  in  one  ; 
And  plac'd  it  in  our  pow'r  to  prove, 
By  long  fidelity  and  love. 
That  Solomon  has  wisely  spoken  : 
"  A  threefold  cord  is  not  soon  broken.'' 


(104) 

FROM  A  LETTER  TO  THE  REV.  MR.  NEWTON 

Late  Rector  of  St.  Mary  Woolnoth 

[Dated  May  28,  1782.] 

Says  the  pipe  to  the  snuff-box,  I  can't  understand 
What  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  see  in  your  face 

That  you  are  in  fashion  all  over  the  land. 
And  I  am  so  much  fallen  into  disgrace. 

Do  but  see  what  a  pretty  contemplative  air 

I  give  to  the  company — pray  do  but  note  'em — 
You  would  think  that  the  wise  men  of  Greece  were  all 
there, 
Or,  at  least,  would  suppose  them  the  wise  men  of 
Gotham. 

My  breath  is  as  sweet  as  the  breath  of  blown  roses, 
While  you  are  a  nuisance  where'er  you  appear  ; 

There  is  nothing  but  sniv'ling  and  blowing  of  noses, 
Such  a  noise  as  turns  any  man's  stomach  to  hear. 

Then  lifting  his  lid  in  a  delicate  way, 

And  op'ning  his  mouth  with  a  smile  quite  engaging 
The  box  in  reply  was  heard  plainly  to  say. 

What  a  silly  dispute  is  this  we  are  waging  ! 

If  you  have  a  little  of  merit  to  claim, 

Yovi  may  thank  the  sweet-smelling  Virginian  weed 
And  I,  if  I  seem  to  deserve  any  blame, 

The  before-mentioned  drug  in  apology  plead. 

Thus  neither  the  praise  nor  the  blame  is  our  own. 
No  room  for  a  sneer,  much  less  a  cachinnus, 

We  are  vehicles,  not  of  tobacco  alone. 

But  of  any  thing  else  they  may  choose  to  put  in  us 


[105] 

THE  COLUBRIAD 

[1782.] 

Close  by  the  threshold  of  a  door  naiPd  fast, 

Three  kittens  sat :  each  kitten  look'd  aghast. 

I  passing  swift,  and  inattentive  by, 

At  the  three  kittens  cast  a  careless  eye ; 

Not  much  concern'd  to  know  what  they  did  there  ; 

Not  deenxing  kittens  worth  a  poet's  care. 

But  presently  a  loud  and  furious  hiss 

Caus'd  me  to  stop,  and  to  exclaim  "  what  s  this  ?'* 

When  lo  1  upon  the  threshold  met  my  view. 

With  head  erect,  and  eyes  of  fiery  hue, 

A  viper,  long  as  Count  de  Grasse's  queue. 

Forth  from  his  head  his  forked  tongue  he  throws. 

Darting  it  full  against  a  kitten's  nose  j 

Who,  having  never  seen,  in  field  or  house. 

The  like,  sat  still  and  silent  as  a  mouse : 

Only  projecting,  with  attention  due. 

Her  whisker'd  face,  she  ask'd  him,  "  who  are  you 

On  to  the  hall  went  I,  with  pace  not  slow. 

But  swift  as  lightning,  for  a  long  Dutch  hoc  : 

With  which  well  arm'd  I  liastcn'd  to  the  spot 

To  find  the  viper,  but  I  found  him  not. 

And  turning  up  the  leaves  and  shrubs  around, 

Found  only,  that  he  was  not  to  be  found. 

But  still  the  kittens  sitting  as  before. 

Sat  watching  close  the  bottom  of  the  door 

"  I  hope,"  said  I,  "  the  villain  1  would  kill. 

Has  slipp'd  between  the  door,  and  the  door's  sill ; 

And  if  I  make  despatch,  and  follow  hard, 

No  doubt  but  I  shall  find  him  in  the  yard  :" 

For  long  ere  now  it  should  have  been  rehears'd, 

Twas  in  the  garden  that  I  found  him  first. 


106  ON  FRIENDSHIP. 

Ev'n  there  1  found  him,  there  the  full-grown  cat 

His  head,  with  velvet  paw,  did  gently  pat ,: 

As  curious  as  the  kittens  erst  had  been 

To  learn  what  this  phenomenon  might  mean. 

Fill'd  with  heroick  ardour  at  the  sight, 

And  fearing  every  moment  he  would  bite, 

And  rob  our  household  of  our  only  cat, 

That  was  of  age  to  combat  with  a  rat ', 

With  outstretch'd  hoe  I  slew  him  at  the  door, 

And  taught  him  never  to  come  there  no  more. 


ON  FRIENDSHIP. 

Amicitia  nisi  inter  bonos  esse  non  potest. . . .  Cicero 

[1782.] 

What  virtue  can  we  name,  or  grace, 
But  men  unqualified  and  base 

Will  boast  it  their  possession  ? 
Profusion  apes  the  noble  part 
Of  liberality  of  heart, 

And  dulness  of  discretion.  ' 

But  as  the  gem  of  richest  cost  ■ 

Is  ever  counterfeited  most, 

So,  always,  imitation  ■ 

Employs  the  utmost  skill  she  can 
To  counterfeit  the  faithful  man, 

The  friend  of  long  duration. 

Some  will  pronounce  me  too  severe — 

But  long  experience  speaks  me  clear ; 

Therefore  that  censure  scornrng, 


^        or 


ON  FRIENDSHIP. 
1  will  proceed  to  mark  the  shelves, 
On  which  so  many  dash  themselves, 
And  give  the  simple  warning. 

Youth,  unadmonish'd  by  a  guide, 
Will  trust  to  any  fair  outside  : 

An  errour  soon  corrected ; 
For  who,  but  learns,  with  riper  years, 
That  man,  when  smoothest  he  appears^     7/ 

Is  most  to  be  suspected  ! 

But  here  again  a  danger  lies 
Lest,  thus  deluded  by  our  eyes. 

And  taking  trash  for  treasure, 
We  should,  when  undeceiv'd,  conclude 
Friendship,  imaginary  good, 

A  mere  Utopian  pleasure. 

An  acquisition,  rather  rare. 
Is  yet  no  subject  of  despair  ; 

Nor  should  it  seem  distressful, 
If  either  on  forbidden  ground, 
Or,  where  it  was  not  to  be  found. 

We  sought  it  unsuccessful. 

No  friendship  will  abide  the  tost 
That  stands  on  sordid  interest 

And  mean  self-lovo  6fbui<T7« 
Nor  such,  as  may  awhile  subsist 
*Twixt  sensualist  and  sensualist, 

For  vicious  ends  connected. 

Who  hopes  a  friend,  should  have  a  hearty 
Himself,  well  furnish'd  for  the  part, 

And  ready  on  occasion 
To  show  the  virtue  that  he  seeks  ; 
For  'tis  an  union  that  bespeaks 

A  just  reciprocation. 


•40T- 


108  FRIENDSHIP. 

A  fretful  temper  will  divide 
The  closest  knot  that  may  be  tied, 

By  ceaseless  sharp  corrosion  • 
A  temper  passionate  and  fierce 
May  suddenly  your  joys  disperse 

At  one  immense  explosion. 

In  vain  the  talkative  unite 
With  hope  of  permanent  delight, 

The  secret  just  committed  : 
They  drop  through  mere  desire  to  prate. 
Forgetting  its  important  weight, 

And  by  themselves  outwitted. 

How  bright  soe'er  the  prospect  seems, 
All  thoughts  of  friendship  are  but  dreamt 

If  envy  chance  to  creep  in ; 
An  envious  man,  if  you  succeed. 
May  prove  a  dang'rous  foe  indeed. 

But  not  a  friend  worth  keeping. 

As  envy  pines  at  good  possess'd, 
So  jealousy  looks  forth  distressed 

On  good  that  seems  approaching , 
And,  if  success  his  steps  attend, 
Discerns  a  rival  in  a  friend. 

And  hates  him  for  encroaching. 

Hence  authors  of  illustrious  name, 
(Unless  belied  by  common  fame,) 

Are  sadly  prone  to  quarrel ; 
To  deem  the  wit  a  friend  displays 
So  much  of  loss  to  their  own  praise, 

And  pluck  each  other's  laurel. 

A  man  renowned  for  repartee. 
Will  seldom  scruple  to  malte  free 
With  friendship's  finest  feeling, 


FRIENDSHIP.  109 

Will  thrust  a  dagger  at  your  breaat 
And  tell  you,  'twas  a  special  jest, 
By  way  of  balm  for  healing. 

Beware  of  tattlers  ;  keep  your  ear 
Close  stopp'd  against  the  tales  they  bear  ; 

Fruits  of  their  own  invention ; 
The  separation  of  chief  friends 
Is  what  their  kindness  most  intends ; 

Their  sport  is  your  dissension. 

Friendship  that  wantonly  admits 
A  joco-serious  play  of  wits 

In  brilliant  altercation, 
Is  umon  such  as  indicates, 
Like  hand-in-hand  insurance-plate», 

Danger  of  conflagration. 

Some  fickle  creatures  boast  a  soul 
True  as  the  needle  to  the  pole  ; 

Yet  shifting,  like  the  weather, 
The  needle's  constancy  forego 
For  any  novelty,  and  show 

Its  variations  rather 

Insensibility  makes  some 
Unseasonably  deaf  and  dumb. 

When  most  you  need  their  pity  ; 
'Tis  waiting  till  the  tears  shall  fall 
From  Gog  and  Magog  in  Guildhall, 

Those  playthings  of  the  city. 

The  great  and  small  but  rarely  meet 
On  terms  of  amity  complete : 

Th*  attempt  would  scarce  be  madder, 
Should  any,  from  the  bottom,  hope 
At  one  huge  stride  to  reach  the  top 
Of  an  erected  ladder. 
Vol.  III.  10 


no  FRIENDSHIP. 

Courcier  and  patriot  cannot  mix 
Their  het'rogeneous  politicks 

Without  an  effervescence, 
Such  as  of  salts  with  lemon  juice 
But  which  is  rarely  known  t'  induce, 

Like  that,  a  coalescence. 

Religion  should  extinguish  strife, 
And  make  a  calm  of  human  life  • 

But  even  those  who  differ 
Only  on  topicks  left  at  large, 
How  fiercely  will  they  meet  and  charge  . 

No  combatants  are  stiffer. 

To  prove,  alas  !  my  main  intent. 
Needs  no  great  cost  of  argument. 

No  cutting  and  contriving ; 
Seeking  a  real  friend,  we  seem 
T'  adopt  the  chy mist's  golden  dream 

With  still  less  hope  of  thriving. 

Then  judge,  or  ere  you  choose  your  mar> 
As  circumspectly  as  you  can. 

And,  having  made  election. 
See  that  no  disrespect  of  yours. 
Such  as  a  friend  but  ill  endures. 

Enfeeble  his  affection. 

It  is  not  timber,  lead,  and  stone. 
An  architect  requires  alone. 

To  finish  a  great  building  ; 
The  palace  were  but  half  complete, 
Could  he  by  any  chance  forget 

The  carving  and  the  gilding, 

As  similarity  of  mind. 
Or  something  not  to  be  definM, 
First  rivets  our  attention  ; 


FRIENDSHIP.  Ill 

So,  manners  decent  and  polite, 
The  same  we  practis'd  at  first  sight, 
Must  save  it  from  declension. 

The  man  who  hails  you  Tom — or  Jack, 
And  proves  by  thumping  on  your  back 

His  sense  of  your  great  merit, 
Is  such  a  friend,  that  one  had  need 
Be  very  much  his  friend  indeed, 

To  pardon,  or  to  bear  it. 

Some  friends  make  this  their  prudent  pi 
"  Say  little,  and  hear  all  you  can  ?** 

Safe  policy,  but  hateful. 
So  barren  sands  imbibe  the  show'r. 
But  render  neither  fruit  nor  flow'r 

Unpleasant  and  ungrateful 

They  whisper  trivial  things,  and  small  > 
But,  to  communicate  at  all 

Things  serious,  deem  improper  ; 
Their  feculence  and  froth  they  show, 
But  keep  their  best  contents  below, 

Just  like  a  simm'ring  copper. 

These  samples  (for  alas  !  at  last 
These  are  but  samples,  and  a,  taste 

Of  evils  yet  unraentioned) 
May  prove  the  task,  a  task  indeed, 
In  which  'tis  much,  if  we  succeed, 

However  well-intpntion'd. 

Pursue  the  theme,  and  you  shall  find 
A  disciplin'd  and  furnish 'd  mind 

To  be  at  least  expedient, 
And  after  summing  all  the  rest, 
Religion  ruling  in  the  breast 

A  principal  ingredient. 


112  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE. 
True  friendship  has,  in  short,  a  grace 
More  than  terrestrial  in  its  face. 

That  proves  it  heav'n-descended: 
Man's  love  of  woman  not  so  pure. 
Nor,  when  since  rest,  so  secure 

To  last  till  life  is  ended 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORG  E. 


[To  the  March  in  Scipio.'] 

WRITTEN  WHEN  THE  NEWS  ARRIVED 

[September^  1782.] 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 

The  brave  that  are  no  more, 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 

Fast  by  their  native  shore ! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 

Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel. 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land  breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  overset ; 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone ; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought ; 

His  work  of  glory  done 


THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE.  113 

^t  was  not  in  tho  battle ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock  j 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak ; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  his  sheath ; 

His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down, 

With  twice  four  hundred  men* 

Weigh  tho  vessel  up, 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes ! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup, 

The  tear  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again, 
Full-charg'd  with  England's  thundeij, 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone. 

His  victories  are  o'er ; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred, 

Shall  plough  tue  wave  no  more. 

10* 


(  tl4  ) 

IN  SUBMERSIONEM  NAVIGII,  GUI  GEORGIUS 
REGALIS  NOMEN,  INDITUM. 

Plangimus  fortes.     Periere  fortes, 
Patrium  propter  periere  littus 
His  quater  centum  ;  subito  sub  olt^i^^J 
^quore  mersi. 

Navis,  innitens  lateri,  jacebat, 
Malus  ad  summas  trepidabat  undas, 
Cum  levis,  funes  quatiens,  ad  imum 
Depulit  aura. 

Plangimus  fortes.    Nimis,  heu,  caducam 
Fortibus  vitam  voluere  parcae, 
Nee  sinunt  ultra  tibi  nos  recentea 
Nectere  laurus. 

Magne,  qui  nomen,  licet  incanorum, 
Traditum  ex  multis  atavis  tulisti ! 
At  tuos  olim  memorabit  aevum 
Omne  triumphos. 

Non  hyems  illos  furibunda  mersit, 
Non  mari  in  clauso  scopuli  latentes, 
Fissa  non  rimis  abies,  nee  atrox 
Abstulit  ensis. 

NavitoB  sed  turn  nimium  jocosi 
Voce  fallebant  hilari  laborem, 
Et  quiescebat  calamoque  dextram  irn- 
plevtjrat  heros. 

Vos,  quibus  cordi  est  grave  opub  piumque, 
Humidum  ex  alto  spolium  levate, 
Et  putrescentes  sub  aquis  amicos 
Reddite  amicis ! 


115  ON  PEACE. 

Hi  quidem  (sic  dis  placuit)  fuere  : 
Sed  ratis,  nondum  putris,  ire  possit 
Rursus  in  bellum,  Britonumque  nomeu 
ToUere  ad  astra 


SONG 
ON  PEACE. 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  SUMMER  OF  1783,  AT  THE  REQUES1 
OF  LADY  AUSTEN,  WHO  GAVE  THE  SENTIMENT. 

Air — "  My  fond  shepherds  of  late"  fyc. 

No  longer  I  follow  a  sound ; 
No  longer  a  dream  I  pursue  : 

0  happiness  I  not  to  be  found. 
Unattainable  treasure,  adieu ! 

1  have  sought  thee  in  splendour  and  dress, 
In  the  regions  of  pleasure  and  taste ; 

1  have  sought  thee,  and  seem'd  to  possess, 
But  have  prov'd  thee  a  vision  at  last. 

An  humble  ambition  and  hope 

The  voice  of  true  wisdom  inspires : 

'Tis  sufficient,  if  Peace  be  the  scope. 
And  the  summit  of  all  our  desires. 

Peace  may  be  the  lot  of  the  mind 
That  seeks  in  it  meekness  and  lovo  ; 

But  rapture  and  bliss  are  confin'd 
To  th  >  glorified  spirits  above. 


(IIG) 


SONG.* 

Air-  "  The  Lass  of  Pattu'a  MUL* 

When  all  within  is  peace, 

How  nature  seems  to  smilo  * 
Delights  that  never  cease, 

The  live -long  day  beguile. 
From  morn  to  dewy  eve, 

With  open  hand  she  showers 
Fresh  blessings  to  deceive, 

And  sooth  the  silent  hours. 

It  is  content  of  heart 

Gives  nature  power  to  please ; 
The  mind  that  feels  no  smart. 

Enlivens  all  it  sees  : 
Can  make  a  wint'ry  sky 

Seem  bright  as  smiling  May* 
And  evening's  closing  eye 

As  peep  of  early  day. 

The  vast  majestick  globe, 

So  beauteously  array'd 
In  nature's  various  robe, 

With  wondrous  skill  display 'd, 
Is  to  a  mourner's  heart 

A  dreary  wild  at  best ; 
It  flutters  to  depart. 

And  longs  to  bo  at  rest. 

*  Also  written  at  the  request  of  Lady  Austen. 


(117) 


VERSES 


SELECTED  F^OM  AN  OCCASIONAL  POEW,  ENTITLED 

VALEDICTION. 

IKov  ember,  1783.] 

Oh  Friendship  '.  Cordial  of  the  human  breast 
So  little  felt,  so  fervently  profess'd  ! 
Thy  blossoms  deck  our  unsuspecting  years ; 
The  promise  of  delicious  fruit  appears  : 
We  hug  the  hopes  of  constancy  and  truth, 
Such  is  the  folly  of  our  dreaming  youth  ; 
But  soon,  alas  !  detect  the  rash  mistake 
That  sanguine  inexperience  loves  to  make  , 
And  view  with  tears  th'  expected  harvest  lost, 
Decay'd  by  time,  or  wither'd  by  a  frost. 
Whoever  undertakes  a  friend's  great  part 
Should  be  renew'd  in  nature,  pure  in  heart, 
Prepared  for  martyrdom,  and  strong  to  prove 
A  thousand  ways  the  force  of  genuine  love. 
He  may  be  call'd  to  give  up  health  and  gain, 
T'  exchange  content  for  trouble,  ease  for  pain, 
To  echo  sigh  for  sigh,  and  groan  for  groan. 
And  wet  his  cheeks  with  sorrows  not  his  own. 
The  heart  of  man,  for  such  a  task  too  frail. 
When  most  relied  on,  is  most  sure  to  fail ; 
And,  SLimmon'd  to  partake  its  fellow's  wo. 
Starts  from  its  office,  like  a  broken  bow. 

Vot'ries  of  business,  and  of  pleasure,  prove 
Faithless  alike  in  friendship  and  in  love. 


118  FROM  THE  POEM  OF  VALEDICTION 

Retir'd  from  all  the  circles  of  the  gay, 
And  all  the  crowds,  that  bustle  life  away. 
To  scenes,  where  competition,  envy,  strife, 
Beget  no  thmider-clouds  to  trouble  life. 
Let  me,  the  charge  of  some  good  angel,  find 
One,  who  has  known,  and  has  escaped  mankind ; 
Polite,  yet  virtuous,  who  has  brought  away 
The  manners,  not  the  morals,  of  the  day : 
With  him,  perhaps  with  her,  (for  men  have  known 
No  firmer  friendships  than  the  fair  have  shown,) 
Let  me  enjoy,  in  some  unthought-of  spot, 
All  former  friends  forgiven,  and  forgot, 
Down  to  the  close  of  Ufe's  fast  fading  scene, 
Union  of  hearts,  without  a  flaw  between. 
'Tis  grace,  'tis  bounty,  and  it  calls  for  praise, 
If  God  give  health,  that  sunshine  of  our  days ' 
And  if  he  add,  a  blessing  shared  by  few. 
Content  of  heart,  more  praises  still  are  due — 
But  if  he  grant  a  friend,  that  boon  possess'd 
Indeed  is  treasure,  and  crowns  all  the  rest ; 
And  giving  one,  whose  heart  is  in  the  skies, 
Born  from  above,  and  made  divinely  wise, 
He  gives,  what  bankrupt  nature  never  can, 
Whose  noblest  coin  is  light  and  brittle  man, 
Gold,  purer  far  than  Ophir  ever  knew, 
A  soul,  an  image  of  himself,  anc^  therefore  true 


THE  SHORTNESS  OF  HUMAN  LIFE.    119 

{N  BREVITATEM  VLTM  SPATII  HOMINIBUS 
CONCESSl. 

BY   DR.   JORTIN. 

Hei  mihl !  Lege  rata  sol  occidit  atque  resurgit, 
Lunaquo  rautatse  reparat  dispendia  formsB, 
Astraque,  purpurei  telis  extincta  diei, 
Rursus  nocte  vigent.     Humiles  tellaris  alumni 
Graminis  herba  verens,  et  florum  picta  propago, 
Quos  crudelis  hyems  lethali  tabe  peredit, 
Cum  Zephyri  vox  blanda  vocat,  rediitque  sereni 
Temperies  aimi,  foecundo,  e  cespite  surgunt. 
Nos  domini  rerum,  nos,  magna  et  pulchra  minati, 
Cum  breve  ver  vitee  robustaque  transiit  sBtas, 
Deficimus ;  nee  nos  ordo  revolubilis  auras 
Reddit  in  cethereas,  tumuli  neque  claustra  resolvit 


ON  THE 

SHORTNESS  OF  HUMAN  LIFE. 

TRANSLATION  OF  THE  FOREGOING. 

[January,  1784.] 

Suns  that  set,  and  moons  that  wane, 
Rise,  and  are  restored  again. 
Stars  that  orient  day  subdues, 
Night  at  her  return  renews. 
Herbs  and  flowers,  the  beauteous  birth 
Of  the  genial  womb  of  earth, 
Suffer  but  a  transient  death 
From  Ihe  winter's  cruel  breath 


120   TO  MISS  C ,  ON  HER  BIRTH-DAY 

Zephyr  speaks  ;  serener  skies 
Warm  the  glebe,  and  they  arise. 
We,  alas  !  Earths  haughty  kings, 
We,  that  promise  mighty  things, 
Losing  soon  life's  happy  prime, 
Droop,  and  fade,  in  little  time. 
Spring  returns,  but  not  our  bloom, 
Still  'tis  winter  in  the  tomb. 


EPITAPH  ON  JOHNSON. 

[January^  1785.] 

Here  Johnson  lies — a  sage  by  all  allow 'd, 

Whom  to  have  bred,  may  well  make  England  proud 

Whose  prose  was  eloquence,  by  wisdom  taught ; 

The  graceful  vehicle  of  virtuous  thought ; 

Whose  verse  may  claim — grave,  masculine,  and  strong, 

Superiour  praise  to  the  mere  poet's  song  j 

Who  many  a  noble  gift  from  Heav'n  possess'd, 

And  faith  at  last,  alone  worth  all  the  rest. 

O  man,  immortal  by  a  double  prize. 

By  fame  on  earth— by  glory  in  the  skies  ! 


TO  MISS  C ,  ON  HER  BIRTH-DAY 

[1786.] 

How  many  between  east  and  west. 

Disgrace  their  parent  earth. 
Whose  deeds  constrain  us  to  detest 

The  day  that  give  them  birth  ' 


GRATITUDE.  121 

Not  so  when  Stella's  natal  morn  f''^ 

Revolving  months  restore, 
We  can  rejoice  that  she  was  born,  -  -nh 

And  wish  her  born  once  more  '  T 


GRATITUDE. 

ADDRESSED  TO  LADY  HESKEIJH. 

[1786.]  ''^^ 

This  cap,  that  so  stately  appears, 

With  riband-bound  tassel  on  high, 
Which  seems  by  the  crest  that  it  rears 

Ambitious  of  brushing  the  sky : 
This  cap  to  my  cousin  I  owe, 

She  gave  it,  and  gave  me  beside, 
Wreath'd  into  an  elegant  bow. 

The  riband  with  which  it  is  tied. 

This  wheel-footed  studying  chair, 

Contriv'd  both  for  toil  and  repose,        ^' 
Wide-elbow'd  and  wadded  with  hair,        >   '^ 

In  which  I  both  scribble  and  doze, 
Bright-studded  to  dazzle  the  eyes, 

And  rival  in  lustre  of  that 
In  which,  or  astronomy  lies, . 

Fair  Cassiopeia  sat : 

These  carpets,  so  soft  to  the  foot, 

Caledonia's  traffick  and  pride, 
Oh,  spare  them,  ye  knights  of  the  bool 

Escaped  from  a  cross-country  ride  . 
This  table  and  mirror  within, 

Secure  from  collision  and  dust. 
At  which  I  oft  shave  cheek  and  chin 

And  periwig  nicely  adjust  • 
Vol.  hi.  11 


122  GRATITUDE. 

This  moveable  structure  of  shelves, 

For  its  beauty  admired,  and  its  use, 
And  charged  with  octavos  and  twelves. 

The  gayest  I  had  to  produce . 
"Where,  flaming  in  scarlet  and  gold, 

My  poems  enchanted  1  view, 
And  hope,  in  due  time  to  behold 

My  lUad  and  Odyssey  too : 

This  china,  that  decks  the  alcove, 

Which  here  people  call  a  buffet, 
But  what  the  gods  call  it  above. 

Has  ne'er  been  reveal'd  to  us  yet  j 
These  curtains,  that  keep  the  room  warm 

Or  cool,  as  the  season  demands, 
These  stoves  that  for  pattern  and  form, 

Seem  the  labour  of  Mulciber's  hands  : 

All  these  are  not  half  that  I  owe 

To  one,  from  her  earliest  youth 
To  me  ever  ready  to  show 

Benignity,  friendship,  and  truth ', 
For  time,  the  destroyer  declar'd 

And  fOG  of  our  perishing  kind, 
If  even  her  face  he  has  spar'd. 

Much  less  could  he  alter  her  mind. 

Thus  compass'd  about  with  the  goods 

And  chattels  of  leisure  and  ease, 
I  indulge  my  poetical  moods, 

In  many  such  fancies  as  these  ; 
And  fancies  I  fear  they  will  seem— - 

Poets'  goods  are  not  often  so  fine ; 
The  poets  will  swear  that  I  dream, 

Whon  I  sing  of  the  splendour  of  mine. 


C  123  ) 


THE  FLATTING-MILL. 


AB  ILLUSTRATION. 

WuEN  a  bar  of  pure  silver,  or  ingot  of  gold, 
'^s  sent  to  be  flatted  or  wrought  into  length, 
It  is  pass'd  between  cylinders  often,  and  roll'd 
In  an  engine  of  utmost  mechanical  strength. 

Thus  tortur'd  and  squeezed,  at  last  it  appears 
Like  a  loose  heap  of  riband,  a  glittering  show, 
Like  musick  it  tinkles  and  rings  in  your  ears, 
And,  warm'd  by  the  pressure,  is  all  in  a  glow. 

This  process  achieved,  it  is  doora'd  to  sustain 
The  thurap-after-thurap-of  a  gold-beater's  mallet; 
And  at  last  is  of  service  in  sickness  or  pain 
To  cover  a  pill  for  a  delicate  palate. 

Alas  for  the  poet !  who  dares  undertake 

To  urge  reformation  of  national  ill — 

His  head  and  his  heart  are  both  likely  to  ache 

With  the  double  employment  of  mallet  and  mill. 

If  he  wish  to  instruct,  he  must  learn  to  delight, 
Smooth,  ductile,  and  even,  his  fancy  must  flow, 
Must  tinkle  and  glitter  like  gold  to  the  sight, 
And  catch  in  its  progress  a  sensible  glow. 

After  all,  he  must  beat  it  as  thin  and  as  fine 
As  the  leat  that  unfolds  what  an  invalid  swallows, 
For  truth  is  unwelcome,  however  divine, 
And  unless  you  adorn  it,  a  nausea  follows. 


LINES 

COMPOSED  FOR  A  MEMORIAL  OF 

ASHLEY   COWPER,  ESQ. 

IMMEDIATKLY  AFTER  HIS  DEATH, 

BY  HIS  NEPHEW,  WILLIAM  OF  WESTON^ 

-.  8 

[jMwe,  1788.]  . 

JxJ    'to    Oi:' 

Farewell  !  endued  with  all  that  could  engage 

All  hearts  to  love  thee,  both  in  youth  and  age  !         ;^  { 

In  prime  of  life,  for  sprightliness  enroU'd 

Among  the  gay,  yet  virtuous  as  the  old  ; 

In  life's  last  stage     O  blessings  rarely  found — 

Pleasant  as  youth  with  all  its  blossoms  crown'd  ; 

Through  every  period  of  this  changeful  state, 

Unchang'd  thyself — wise,  good,  affectionate  ' 

Marble  may  flatter  ;  and  lest  this  should  seem 
O'crcharg'd  with  praises  on  so  dear  a  theme, 
Although  thy  worth  be  more  than  half  supprest. 
Love  shall  be  satisfied,  and  veil  the  rest. 


ON   THE 

aUEEN'S  VISIT  TO  LONDON, 

THE    NIGHT    OF    THE    17th  MARCH,    1789. 

When,  long  sequester'd  from  his  throne, 

George  took  his  seat  again. 
By  right  of  worth,  not  blood  alono, 

Entitled  here  to  reign. 


:I/ 


THE  QUEEN'S  VISIT  TO  LONDOjN.     125 
Then  Loyalty,  with  all  his  lamps 

New  trimm'd,  a  gallant  show  ! 
Chasing  the  darkness,  and  the  damps, 

Set  London  in  a  glow. 

'Twas  hard  to  tell,  of  streets  or  squares, 

Which  fotm'd  the  chief  display. 
These  most  resembling  cluster'd  stars, 

Those  the  long  milky  way. 

Bright  shone  the  roofs,  the  domes,  the  spires 

And  rockets  flew,  self-driv'n. 
To  hang  their  momentary  fires 

Amid  the  vault  of  Heav'n. 

So,  fire  with  water  to  compare. 

The  ocean  serves,  on  high 
Up-spouted  by  a  whale  in  air, 

T*  express  unwieldy  joy. 

Had  all  the  pageants  of  the  world 

In  one  procession  join'd. 
And  all  the  banners  been  unfurl'd 

That  heralds  e'er  design'd. 

For  no  such  sight  had  England's  Queeii 

Forsaken  her  retreat, 
Where,  George  recover'd,  made  a  scene 

Sweet  always,  doubly  sweet. 

Yet  glad  she  came  that  nighi  to  prove, 

A  witness  undescri'd. 
How  much  the  object  of  her  love 

Was  lov'd  by  all  beside. 

Darkness  the  skies  had  mantled  o'er. 

In  aid  of  her  design        — 
Darkness,  O  Queen  !  ne'er  call'd  before 

To  veil  a  deed  of  thine  ! 


I2G    THE  QUEEN'S  VISIT  TO  LONDOR 
On  borrow 'd  wheels  away  she  flies, 

Resolv'd  to  be  unknown. 
And  gratify  no  curious  eyes 

That  night,  except*her  own. 

Arriv'd,  a  night  like  noon  she  sees, 
And  hears  the  million  hum  ; 

As  all  by  instinct,  like  the  bees. 

Had  known  their  sov'reign  come. 

Pleas'd  she  beheld  aloft  pourtray'd 

On  many  a  splendid  wall, 
Emblems  of  health,  and  heav'nly  aid, 

And  George  the  theme  of  all. 

Unlike  the  oBnigmatick  line, 

So  difficult  to  spell. 
Which  shock  Belshazzar  at  his  wine, 

The  night  his  city  fell. 

Soon,  wat'ry  grew  her  eyes  aad  dim, 

But  with  a  joyful  tear, 
None  else,  except  a  pray'r  for  him, 

George  ever  drew  from  her. 

It  was  a  scene  in  ev'ry  part 

Like  those  in  fable  feign'd, 
And  seem'd  by  some  magician's  art 

Created  and  sustain'd. 

But  other  magick  there,  she  knew. 

Had  been  exerted  none. 
To  raise  such  wonders  in  her  view. 

Save  love  of  George  alone. 

That  cordial  thought  her  spirit  cheer'd. 
And  through  the  curab'rous  throng 

Not  else  unworthy  to  be  fear'd, 
Convey'd  her  calm  along. 


THE  COCK-FIGHTER'S  GARLAND.     127 

So,  ancient  poets  say  serene 

The  sea-maid  rides  the  waves, 
And  fearless  of  the  billowy  scene 

Her  peaceful  bosom  laves. 

With  more  than  astronomick  eyes 

She  view'd  the  sparkling  show ; 
On©  Georgian  star  adorns  the  skies, 

She  myriads  found  below 

Yet  let  the  glories  of  a  nigh 

Like  that  once  seen,  suffice, 
Heav'n  grant  us  no  such  future  sight, 

Such  previous  wo  the  price  ! 


COCK-FIGHTER'S  GARLAND. 

IMayy  1789.] 

Muse — Hide  his  name  of  whom  I  sing 
Lest  his  surviving  house  thou  bring. 

For  his  sako,  into  scorn ; 
Nor  speak  the  School  from  which  he  drew 
The  much  or  little  that  he  knew, 

Nor  place  where  he  was  bom. 

That  such  a  man  once  was,  may  seem 
Worthy  of  record  (if  the  theme 

Perchance  may  credit  win) 
For  proof  to  man,  what  man  may  proTd, 
If  grace  depart,  and  demons  move 

The  source  of  guilt  within. 


128    THE  COCK-FIGHTER'S  GARLAND. 
This  man  (for  since  the  howling  wild  i 

Disclaims  him,  Man  he  must  be  styl'd)  ■ 

Wanted  no  good  below, 
Gentle  he  was,  if  gentle  birth 
Could  make  him  such,  and  he  had  worth, 

If  wealth  can  worth  bestow. 

In  social  talk  and  ready  jest 
He  shone  superiour  at  the  feast. 

And  qualities  of  mind 
Illustrious  in  the  eyes  of  those 
Whose  gay  society  ho  chose, 

Possess'd  of  every  kind. 

Methinks  1  see  him  powder'd  red, 
With  bushy  locks  his  well-dress'd  head 

Wing'd  broad  on  either  side, 
The  mossy  rose  bud  not  so  sweet 
His  steed  superb,  his  carriage  neat 

As  lux'ry  could  provide. 

Can  such  be  cruel ! — Such  can  be 
Cruel  as  hell,  and  so  is  he  ! 

A  tyrant,  entertain'd 
With  barb'rous  sports,  whose  fell  delight 
Was  to  encourage  mortal  fight 

*Twixt  birds  to  battle  train'd. 

One  feather'd  champion  he  possess'd^  - 

His  darling  far  beyond  the  rest,  "to  doism  oriT 

Which  never  knew  disgrace,     '  '  ''^-^ 
Nor  e'er  had  fought,  but  he  made  flow 
The  life-blood  of  his  fiercest  foe. 

The  CsBsar  of  his  race. 

It  chanced,  at  last,  when,  on  a  day. 

He  push'd  him  to  the  desp'rate  fray 

His  courage  droop'd,  he  fled, 


THE  COCK-FIGHTER  S  GARLAND      129 

The  Master  storm 'd,  the  priije  was  lost, 
And,  instant  frantick  at  the  cost, 
He  doom'd  his  fav'rite  dead. 

Ho  seiz'd  him  fast,  and  from  the  pit   I'l'iilfl'^Mil 
Flew  to  his  kitchen,  snatch'd  the  spit, 

And,  bring  me  cord,  he  cried — 
The  cord  was  brought,  and  at  his  word, 
To  that  dire  implement  the  bird. 

Alive  and  struggling,  tied. 

The  horrid  sequel  asks  a  veil. 
And  all  the  terrours  of  the  tale 

That  can  he,  shall  be,  sunk — 
Led  by  the  sufTrer's  screams  aright. 
His  shock'd  companions  view  the  sight, 

And  him  with  fury  drunk. 

All,  suppliant  beg  a  milder  fate 
For  the  old  warriour  at  the  grate  : 

He,  deaf  to  pity's  call, 
Whirl'd  round  him  rapid  as  a  wheel 
His  culinary  club  of  steel. 

Death  menacing  on  alL 

But  vengeance  hung  not  far  remote, 

For  while  he  stretch'd  his  clam'rous  throat. 

And  heav'n  and  earth  defied. 
Big  with  a  curse  too  closely  pent, 
That  struggled  vainly  for  a  vent. 

He  totter'd,  rcel'd,  and  died. 

•Tis  not  for  us,  with  rash  surmise. 
To  point  the  judgments  of  the  skies^ 

But  judgments  plain  as  this. 
That,  sent  for  Man's  instruction,  bring 
A  written  label  on  their  wing, 

'Tis  hard  to  read  amiss. 


130      TRANSLATIONS  FROM  HORACE. 


BENEFIT  RECEIVED  BY  HIS  MAJESTY 
FROM  SEA-BATHING, 

IN    THE    YEAR    1789. 

O  Sov'reign  of  an  isle  renown'd 

For  undisputed  sway 
Wherever  o'er  yon  gulf  profound 

Her  navies  wing  their  way. 

With  juster  claim  she  builds  at  length 

Her  empire  on  the  sea, 
And  well  may  boast  the  waves  her  strength 

Which  strength  restored  to  Thee. 


TRANSLATIONS   FROM  HORACE. 

HOR.  LIB.  I.  ODE  IX, 

VideSf  ut  alta  stet  nive  candidum 
Soracte. 

Sek'st  thou  yon  mountain  laden  with  deep  snow, 
The  groves  beneath  their  fleecy  burthen  bow, 
The  streams  congeal'd  forget  to  flow, 

Come,  thaw  the  cold,  and  lay  a  cheerful  pile 

Of  fuel  on  the  hearth  ; 
Broach  the  best  cask,  and  make  old  winter  smile 
With  seasonable  mirth. 


nl 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  HORACE.       13J 
This  be  our  part — let  Heav'n  dispose  the  rest 

If  Jove  command,  the  winds  shall  sleep, 
That  now  wage  war  upon  the  foamy  deep, 

And  gentle  gales  spring  from  the  balmj  West 
E*en  let  us  shift  to-morrow  as  we  may, 

When  to-morrow's  past  away, 

We  at  least  shalthave  to  say, 

We  have  liv'd  another  day  ; 
Your  auburn  locks  will  soon  be  silver'd  o*er, 
Old  age  is  at  our  heels,  and  youth  returns  no  more 


HOR.  LIB.  I.  ODE  38. 

Persicos  odiy  puer,  apparatus. 

Boy,  I  hate  their  empty  shows, 

Persian  garlands  1  detest, 
Bring  not  me  the  late-blown  rose, 

Ling'ring  after  all  the  rest : 

Plainer  myrtle  pleases  me. 

Thus  out-stretch'd  beneath  my  vin« 
Myrtle  more  becoming  thee, 

Waiting  with  thy  master's  wine. 


132       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  HORACK. 

English  Sap2)hicks  have  been  attempted^  but  toith  httla 
success,  because  in  our  language  ?re  have  no  certain 
rules  by  which  to  determine  the  quantity.  The  folloW' 
ing  version  was  made  merely  in  the  way  of  experi- 
ment how  far  it  might  be  possible  to  imitate  a  Latin 
Sapphick  in  English^  without  any  attention  to  that  cir 
cumstance.  ^ 


HOR.  B.  I.  ODE  38. 

Boy  !  I  detest  all  Persian  fopperies 
Fillet-bound  garlands  are  to  me  disgusting, 
Task  not  thyself  with  any  search,  I  charge  thee, 
Where  latest  roses  linger. 

Bring  me  alone  (for  thou  wilt  find  that  readily^ 
Plain  myrtle.     Myrtle  neither  will  disparage 
Thee  occupied  to  serve  me,  or  me  drinking 
Beneath  my  vine's  cool  shelter. 


HOR.  LIB.  II.  ODE  16. 

Otium  Divos  rogat  in  patenti. 

Ease  is  the  weary  merchant's  pray'r, 
Who  ploughs  by  night  the  ^gean  flood, 

When  neither  moon  nor  stars  appear, 
Or  faintly  glimmer  through  the  cloud. 

For  ease  the  Mede  with  quiver  graced, 
For  ease  the  Thracian  hero  sighs. 

Delightful  ease  all  pant  to  taste, 
A  blessing  which  no  treasure  buys 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  HORACE.      133 
For  neither  gold  can  lull  to  rest, 

Nor  all  a  Consul's  guard  beat  off) 
The  tumults  of  a  troubled  breast, 

The  cares  that  haunt  a  gilded  roof*. 

Happy  the  man,  whose  table  shows 

A  few  clean  ounces  of  old  plate  ; 
No  fear  intrudes  on  his  repose, 

No  sordid  wishes  to  bo  great. 

Poor  short-liv'd  things,  what  plans  we  lay  ' 

Ah,  why  forsake  our  native  home  ! 
To  distant  climates  speed  away  : 

For  self  sticks  close  where'er  we  roam. 

Care  follows  hard  ;  and  soon  o'ertakes 
The  well  rigg'd  ship,  the  warlike  steed, 

Her  destin'd  quarry  ne'er  forsakes, 
Not  the  wind  flies  with  half  her  speed. 

From  anxious  fears,  of  future  ill 

Guard  well  the  cf  derful,  happy  Now  ; 

Gild  even  your  sorrows  with  a  smile, 
No  blessing  is  unmix'd  below. 

Thy  neighing  steeds  and  lowing  herds, 
Thy  num'rous  flocks  around  thee  graze, 

And  the  best  purple  Tyre  affords 
Thy  robe  magnificent  displays 

On  me  indulgent  Heav'n  bestow'd 
A  rural  mansion,  neat  and  small , 
This  Lyre  ;  and  as  for  yonder  crowd, 
The  happiness  to  hate  them  all. 
Vol.  in.  12 


134    TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  DR.  Li.OYD 

I  make  no  apology  for  the  introduction  of  the  foU 
lowing  lines  J  though  1  have  never  learned  who  wrote 
them.  Their  elegance  will  sufficiently  recommend  them 
to  persons  of  classical  taste  and  erudition,  and  I  shall 
le  happy  if  the  English  version  that  they  have  received 
from  me,  he  found  not  to  dishonour  them.  Affection 
for  the  memory  of  the  worthy  man  whom  they  celebrate, 
alone  prompted  me  to  this  endeavour, 

W,  COW  PER, 


VERSES 


THE  MEMORY  OF  DR.  LLOYD, 

ePOKEN    AT    THE    WESTMINSTER    ELECTION  NEXT    AFTER 
HIS  DECEASE. 

Abut  senex  !  periit  senex  amabilis ! 

Quo  non  fuit  jucundior. 
Lugete  vos,  eetas  quibus  maturior 

Senem  colendum  prsestitit, 
Seu  quando,  viribus  valentioribus 

Firmoque  fretus  pectore, 
Florentiori  vos  juventute  excolens 

Cuia  fovebat  patria. 
Seu  quando  fractus,  jamque  donatus  rude, 

Vultu  sed  usque  blandulo, 
Miscere  gaudebat  suas  facetias 

His  annuls  leporibus. 
Vixit  probus,  puraque  simplex  indole 

Blandisque  conuis  mcribus, 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  DR.  LLOYD.     13i) 
Et  dives  sequa  meiite — charus  omnibus, 

Unius*  auctus  munerc. 
Ite  tituli !  m&ritis  beatioribus 

Aptate  laudes  debitas  ! 
Nee  invidebat  ille,  si  quibus  favens 

Fortuna  plus  arriserat. 
Placide  senex  !  levi  quiescas  cespite$ 

Etsi  superbum  nee  vivo  tibi 
Decus  sit  inditum,  nee  mortuo 

Lapis  notatus  nomine. 


THE  SAME  IN  ENGLISH. 

Our  good  old  friend  is  gone,  gone  to  his  rest, 

Whose  soeial  converse  was,  itself,  a  feafli. 

O  ye  of  riper  age,  who  reeoUeet 

How  once  ye  loved,  and  eyed  him  with  respect, 

Both  in  the  firmness  of  his  better  day, 

While  yet  he  ruled  you  with  a  father's  sway, 

And  when,  impair 'd  by  time,  and  glad  to  rest. 

Yet  still  with  looks  in  mild  complacence  dress'd, 

He  took  his  annual  seat,  and  mingled  here 

His  sprightly  vein  with  yours — now  drop  a  tear. 

In  morals  blameless  as  in  manners  meek, 

l£e  knew  no  wish  that  he  might  blush  to  speak, 

But,  hnppy  in  whatever  state  below. 

And  richer  than  the  rich  in  being  so. 

Obtained  the  hearts  of  all,  and  such  a  meed 

At  length  from  One,t  as  made  him  rich  indeed. 

•rrh  i'i.   Mii  ;"••"_   ,  ■  :'.'H 

*  He  was  usher  and  iiiidel--inaster  of  Westminister  near  fiftji 
yenrs,  and  retired  from  his  occuptrtion  when  he  was  near  se< 
vanty,  with  a  handsome  pension  from  the  king. 

t  See  the  note  in  the  Latin  copy. 


136  TO  MRS.  THROCKMORTOI«. 

Hence  then,  ye  titles,  hence,  not  wanted  here 
Go,  gjarnish  merit  in  a  brighter  sphere. 
The  brows  of  those  whose  more  exalted  lot 
He  could  congratulate,  but  envied  not. 

Light  lie  the  turf,  good  Senior !  on  thy  breast. 
And,  tranquil  as  thy  mind  was,  be  thy  rest ! 
Tho'  living,  thou  hadst  more  desert  than  fame, 
And  not  a  stone,  now,  chronicles  thy  namo. 


TO  MRS.  THROCKMORTON, 

ON 
BER  BEAUTIFUL  TRANSCRIPT  OF  HORACES  ODBj 

AD  LIBRUM  SUUM. 
[February,  1790.] 

Maria,  could  Horace  have  guess'd 

What  honour  awaited  his  ode, 
To  his  own  little  volume  address'd. 

The  honour  which  you  have  bestow 'd. 
Who  have  traced  it  in  characters  here 

So  elegant,  even,  and  neat, 
He  had  laugh'd  at  the  critical  sneer 

Which  he  seems  to  have  trembled  to  meet. 

And  sneer,  if  you  please,  he  had  said, 

A  nymph  shall  hereafter  arise, 
Who  shall  give  me,  when  you  are  all  dead, 

The  glory  your  malice  denies. 
Shall  dignity  give  to  my  lay. 

Although  but  a  mere  bagatelle  j 
And  even  a  poet  shall  say. 

Nothing  ever  was  written  so  well. 


{  137  ^ 


INSCRIPTION 

For  a  Stone  erected  at  the  Sowing  of  a  Grove  of-  Oaks 
at  Chillington,  the  seat  of  T,  Gifford,  Esq. 

1790, 
[June,  1790.] 

Other  stones  the  era  tell, 
When  some  feeble  mortal  fell ; 
I  stand  here  to  date  the  birth 
Of  these  hardy  sons  of  Earth. 

Which  shall  longest  brave  the  Bky^ 
Storm  and  frost — these  oaks  or  I  ? 
Pass  an  age  or  two  away, 

1  must  moulder  and  decay,  I 

But  the  years  that  crumble  me 
Shall  mvigorate  the  tree, 
Spread  its  branch,  dilate  its  size, 
Lifl  its  summit  to  the  skies. 

Cherish  honour,  virtue,  truth, 
So  shalt  thou  prolong  thy  youth. 
Wanting  these,  however  fast 
Man  be  fix'd  and  form'd  to  last 
He  is  lifeless  even  now, 
Stone  at  heart,  ax:«d  cannpt  grow. 
12* 


(138) 

ANOTHER, 

¥or  a  Stone  erected  on  a  similar  occasion  at  the  same 
place  in  the  following  year. 

[June,  1790.] 

Reader  !  Behold  a  monument 

That  asks  no  sigh  or  tear, 
Though  it  perpetuate  the  event 

Of  a  great  hurial  here. 

Anno  1791. 


HYMN, 

POR   THE    USE   OF   THE 

SUNDAY  SCHOOL  AT  OLNEY. 

[July  J 1790.] 

HeaR;  Lord,  the  song  of  praise  and  pray*r. 

In  heaven  thy  dwelling-place, 
From  infants,  made  the  publick  care, 

And  taught  to  seek  thy  face  ! 

Thanks  for  thy  Word  and  for  thy  Day ; 

And  grant  us,  we  implore, 
Never  to  waste  in  sinful  play 

Thy  holy  Sabbath  more. 

Thanks  that  we  hear — ^but  oh  impart 

To  each  desire  sincere. 
That  we  may  listen  with  our  heart. 

And  learn  as  well  as  hear 


•—  ~^\ 


STANZAS.  139 

For  if  vain  thoughts  the  minds  engage 

Of  elder  far  than  we, 
"What  hope  that  at  our  heedless  age 

Our  minds  should  e'er  be  free! 

Much  hope,  if  thou  our  spirits  take 

Under  thy  gracious  sway, 
Who  canst  the  wisest  wiser  make, 

And  babes  as  wise  as  they. 

Wisdom  and  bliss  thy  word  bestows, 

A  sun  that  ne'er  declihcs ; 
And  be  thy  mercies  show'r'd  on  thoAd 

Who  plac'd  us  where  it  shines.* 


STANZAS 

On  the  late  indecent  Liberties  taken  with  the  Remains 
of  the  great  Milton — jlnno  1780. 

\JlugtLsty  1790  J 

"  Me  too,  perchance,  in  future  days, 

The  sculptur'd  stone  shall  show 
With  Paphian  myrtle  or  with  bays 

Parnassian  on  my  brow. 

•  Note  by  the  Editor.  This  Hymn  was  written  at  the  re- 
quest of  the  Rev.  James  Bean,  then  Vicar  of  Olney,  to  be 
«ung  by  the  children  of  the  Sunday  Schools  of  that  town, 
after  a  Charity  Sermon,  preached  at  the  Parish  Church  for 
iheir  benefit,  on  Sunday,  July  31,  1790. 


110  STANZAS. 

But  I,  or  ere  that  season  come, 

Escaped  from  every  care, 
Shall  reach  my  refuge  in  the  tomb. 

And  sleep  securely  there."* 

So  sang,  in  Roman  tone  and  style. 

The  youthful  bard,  ere  long 
Ordain'd  to  grace  his  native  isle 

With  her  sublimest  song. 

Who  then  but  must  conceive  disdain, 

Hearing  the  deed  unblest 
Of  wretches  who  have  dar'd  profane 

His  dread  sepulchral  rest  ? 

HI  fare  the  hands  that  heav'd  the  stonei 

Where  Milton's  ashes  lay, 
That  trembled  not  to  grasp  his  bones, 

And  steal  his  dust  away  ! 

O  ill-requited  bard !  neglect 

Thy  living  worth  repaid. 
And  blind  idolatrous  respect 

As  much  affronts  the  dead. 

*  Forsitan  et  nostros  ducat  de  marmore  vultus 
Nectens  aut  Paphia  myrti  aut  Parnasside  lauri 
Fronde  comas. .  .At  ego  secura  pace  quiescam. 

Milton  in  Ma^un 


( HI) 


TO  MRS.  KING 


Htr  hind  PreserU  to  the  Author^  a  Patch-wofk  Cowm 
terpane  of  her  own  making. 

[August  14, 1790.] 

The  Bard,  if  e'er  he  feel  at  all, 
Must  sure  be  quicken'd  by  a  call 

Both  on  his  heart  and  head, 
To  pay  with  tuneful  thanks  the  care 
And  kindness  of  a  lady  fair, 

Who  deigns  to  deck  his  bed. 

A  bed  like  this,  in  ancient  time, 
On  Ida's  barren  top  sublime, 

(As  Homer's  Epick  shows) 
Compos'd  of  sweetest  vernal  flow'rs, 
Without  the  aid  of  sun  or  show'rs, 

For  Jove  and  Juno  rose. 

Less  beautiful,  however  gay, 

la  that  which  in  the  scorching  day 

Receives  the  weary  swain 
Who,  laying  his  long  sithe  aside, 
S'leeps  on  some  bank  with  daisies  pied, 

Till  rous'd  to  toil  again. 

What  labours  of  the  loom  I  see  • 
Looms  numberless  have  groan'd  for  m« 

Should  ev'ry  maiden  come 
To  *<?ramble  for  the  patch  that  bears 
The  impress  of  the  robe  she  wears, 

The  bell  would  toll  for  some. 


142  ANECDOTK  OF  HOMER. 

And  oh,  what  hayock  woul^  ensuo  ' 
This  bright  display  of  ev'ry  hue 

All  in  a  moment  fled  ! 
As  if  a  storm  should  strip  the  bow'rs 
Of  all  their  tendrils,  leaves,  and  flow'r 

Each  pocketing  a  shred. 

Thanks,  then,  to  ev'ry  gentle  fair 
Who  will  not  come  to  peck  me  bare 

As  bird  of  borrow'd  feather, 
And  thanks,  to  One,  above  them  all, 
The  gentle  Fair  of  Pertenhall, 

Who  put  the  whole  together. 


lOctoher,  1790.] 

*  Certain  PotterS;  while  they  were  busied  in  baking  their 
ware,  seeing  Homer  at  a  small  distance;  and  having  hoard 
much  said  of  his  wisdom,  called  to  him,  and  promised  him  a 
present  of  their  commodity,  and  of  such  other  things  as  they 
could  afford,  if  he  would  sing  to  them,  when  he  sang  as  fol- 
lows I 

Pay  me  my  price,  Potters !  and  I  will  sing 
Attend,  O  Pallas  !  and  with  lifted  arm 
Protect  their  oven  ;  let  the  cups  and  all 
The  sacred  vessels  blacken  well,  and  baked 
With  good  success,  yield  them  both  fair  lenown 

*  Note  by  the  Editor.  JVo  litis  is  prefi-sced  to  thit 
piece :  but  it  appears  to  be  a  translation  of  one  of  the 
'E.-niygannara  of  Homer,  called  'O  Ka^xivoj,  or  the  Fur^ 
nace.  The  prefatory  lines  are  from  the  Greek  of  He- 
rodotus, or  whoetyer  was  the  Author  of  the  Lift  of 
Homer  ascribed  to  him 


ANECDOTE  OF  HOMER.  143 

And  profit,  whether  in  the  market  sold, 

Or  street,  and  let  no  strife  ensue  between  usj 

But,  oh,  ye  Potters  !  if  with  shameless  front, 

Ye  falsify  your  promise,  then  I  leave 

No  mischief  uninvok'd  t'  avenge  the  wrong. 

Come  Syntrips,  Smaragus,  Sabactes  come, 

And  Asbetus,  nor  let  your  direst  dread, 

Omodamus,  delay  I  Fire  seize  your  house, 

May  neither  house  nor  vestibule  escape, 

May  ye  lament  to  see  confusion  mar 

And  mingle  the  whole  labour  of  your  hands. 

And  may  a  sound  fill  all  your  oven,  such 

As  of  a  horse  grinding  his  provender, 

While  all  your  pots  and  flagons  bounce  within. 

Come  hither  also,  daughter  of  the  sun, 

Circe  the  Sorceress,  and  with  thy  drugs 

Poison  themselves,  and  all  that  they  have  made 

Come  also,  Chiron,  with  thy  num'rous  troop 

Of  Centaurs,  as  well  those  who  died  beneath 

The  club  of  Hercules,  as  who  escaped, 

And  stamp  their  crockery  to  dust ;  down  fall 

Their  chimney  ;  let  them  see  it  with  their  eyes. 

And  howl  to  see  the  ruin  of  their  art, 

While  I  rejoice  ;  and  if  a  potter  stoop 

To  peep  into  his  furnace,  may  the  fire 

Flash  in  his  face  and  scorch  it,  that  all  men 

Observe,  thenceforth,  equity  and  good  faith 


(144; 


IN  MEMORY 


OF  THE  LATE 


JOHN  THORNTON,  ESa 

[Novemler,  17Q0.] 

Poets  attenipt  the  noblest  task  they  can, 
Praising  the  Author  of  all  good  in  man, 
And,  next,  commemorating  Worthies  lost, 
The  Dead  in  whom  that  good  abounded  most. 

Thee,  therefore,  of  commercial  fame,  but  more 
Famed  for  thy  probity  from  shore  to  shore. 
Thee,  Thornton  !  worthy  in  some  page  to  shine, 
As  honest,  and  more  eloquent  than  nime, 
I  mourn  ;  or,  since  thrice  happy  thou  must  be, 
The  world,  no  longer  thy  abode,  not  thee. 
Thee  to  deplore,  were  grief  mispent  indeed  ; 
It  were  to  weep  that  goodness  has  its  meed, 
That  there  is  bliss  prepared  in  yonder  sky, 
And  glory  for  the  virtuous,  when  they  die. 

What  pleasure  can  the  miser's  fondled  board, 
Or  spendthrift's  prodigal  excess  afford. 
Sweet  as  the  privilege  of  healing  wo 
lij  virtue  suffer'd  combating  below  ? 
That  privilege  was  thine  ;  Heav'n  gave  thee  meani 
T*  illumine  with  delight  the  saddest  scenes, 
Till  thy  appearance  chased  the  gloom,  forlorn 
As  midnight,  and  despairing  of  a  morn, 
Thou  hadst  an  industry  in  doing  good. 
Restless  as  his  who  toils  and  sweats  for  food : 


THE   FOUR  A.GES.  145 

Av'rice,  in  thee,  was  the  desire  of  wealth 
By  rust  unperishable  or  by  stealth, 
And  if  the  genuine  worth  of  gold  depend 
On  application  to  its  noblest  end, 
Thine  had  a  value  in  the  scales  of  Heav'n, 
Surpassing  all  that  mine  or  mint  had  giv'n. 
And,  though  God  made  thee  of  a  nature  prone 
To  distribution  boundless  of  tliy  own, 
And  still  by  motives  of  religious  force 
Impell'd  thee  more  to  that  heroick  course, 
Yet  was  thy  liberality  discreet, 
Nice  in  its  choice,  and  of  a  tempered  heat ; 
And  though  in  act  unwearied,  secret  still, 
As  in  some  solitude  the  summer  rill 
Refreshes,  where  it  winds,  the  faded  green, 
And  cheers  the  drooping  flowers,  unheard,  unseen 

Such  was  thy  Charity  ;  no  sudden  start. 
After  long  sle^p  wf'oassion  in  the  heart. 
But  steadfast  principle,  and,  in  its  kind^ 
Of  close  relation -to  th'  eternal  mind, 
Traced  easily  to  its  true  source  above, 
To  him,  whose  works  bespeak  his  nature.  Love. 

Thy  bounties  all  were  Christian,  and  I  make 
This  record  of  thee  for  the  Gospel's  sake  j 
That  the  incredulous  themselves  may  see 
Its  use  and  power  exemplified  in  thee. 


THE  FOUR  AGES. 

[A  brief  fragment  of  an  extensive  projected  Poem, 

[Jtfay,  1791.] 
"  I  could  bo  well  content,  allow'd  the  use 
Of  past  experience,  and  the  wisdom  glean'd 
From  worn-out  follies,  now  acknowledg'd  such, 
To  recommence  life's  trial  in  the  hope 
Of  fewer  errours,  on  a  second  proof  *' 
Vu..  ITT  13 


140  THE  FOUR  AGES- 

Thus,  while  gray  evening  lull'd  the  wind,  and  call'd 
Fresh  odours  from  the  shubb'ry  at  my  side, 
Taking  my  lonely  winding  walk,  I  mus'd. 
And  held  accustom'd  conference  with  ray  heart, 
When,  from  within  it,  thus  a  voice  replied. 
"  Couldst  thou  in  truth  ?   and  art  thou  taught  at  length 
This  wisdom,  and  but  this,  from  all  the  past  ? 
Is  not  the  pardon  of  thy  long  arrear, 
Time  wasted,  violated  laws,  abuse 
Of  talents,  judgments,  mercies,  better  far 
Than  opportunity  vouchsaf'd  to  err 
With  less  excuse,  and  haply,  worse  effect  ?" 

! 

I                     I  heard,  and  acquiesced ;  then  to  and  fro 
Oft  pacing,  as  the  mariner  his  deck. 
My  grav'lly  bounds,  from  self  to  human  kind 
I  pass'd,  and  next  consider'd what  is  Man  ? 

Knows  he  his  origin  ?  can  he  ascend 
By  reminiscence  to  his  earliest  date  ? 
Slept  he  in  Adam  ?  and  in  those  from  him 
Through  num'rous  generations,  till  he  found 
At  length  his  destin'd  moment  to  be  born  ? 
Or  was  he  not,  till  fashion'd  in  the  womb  ? 
Deep  myst'ries  both  !  which  schoolmen  much  have  toii'd 
To  unriddle,  and  have  left  them  myst'ries  still. 

It  is  an  evil  incident  to  man, 
And  of  the  worst,  that  unexplor'd  he  leaves 
Truths  useful  and  attainable  with  ease, 
To  search  forbidden  deeps,  where  myst'ry  lies        .     , 
Not  to  be  solv'd,  and  useless  if  it  might. 
Myst'ries  are  food  for  angels  j  they  digest 
With  ease,  and  find  them  nutriment ;  but  man, 
While  yet  he  dwells  below,  must  stoop  to  glean 
His  manna  from  the  ground,  or  starve  and  die 


i:rr::--ii 


fHE  JUDGMENT  OF  THE  POETS. 


IMay,  1791.] 

Two  nymphs,  both  nearly  of  an  age, 
Of  num'rous  charms  possessed, 

A  warm  dispute  once  chanc'd  to  wage, 
Whose  temper  was  the  best. 

The  worth  of  each  had  been  complete 

Had  both  alike  been  mild . 
But  one,  although  her  smile  was  sweet* 

Frown'd  oftencr  than  she  smil'd. 

And  in  her  humour,  when  she  frown'd 
Would  raise  her  voice  and  roar, 

And  shake  with  fury  to  the  ground 
The  garland  that  she  wore. 

The  other  was  of  gentler  cast. 
From  all  such  frenzy  clear, 

Her  frowns  were  seldom  known  to  last. 
And  never  prov'd  severe. 

To  poets  of  renown  in  song 

The  nymphs  referr'd  the  cause. 

Who,  strange  to  tell,  all  judg'dit  wrong, 
And  gave  misplaced  applause. 

They  gentle  call'd,  and  kind  and  soft. 
The  flippant  and  the  scold. 

And  though  she  chang'd  her  mood  so  oft. 
That  failing  left  untold. 


148     THE  JUDGMENT  OF  THE  POET» 

No  judges,  sure,  were  e'er  so  mad, 

Or  so  resolv'd  to  err — 
In  short,  the  charms  her  sister  had 

They  lavish'd  all  on  her. 

Then  thus  the  god  whom  fondly  they 

Their  great  inspirer  call, 
Was  heard,  one  genial  summer's  day, 

To  reprimand  them  all. 

"  Since  thus  ye  have  comhin'd,"  he  said^ 
"  My  favourite  nymph  to  slight. 

Adorning  May,  that  peevish  maid, 
With  June's  undoubted  right. 

"  The  Minx  shall  for  your  folly's  sako 

Still  prove  herself  a  shrew, 
Shall  make  your  scribbling  fingers  ache, 

And  pinch  your  noses  blu®. 


TRANSLATIONS 


OFTHB 


LATIN  AND  ITALIAN  POEMS 

OP 

MILTON. 

Begun,  September,  1791.    Finished,  March,  1792.J 


(150) 


TRANSLATIONS 


THE  LATIN  POEMS, 


ELEGIES. 


ELEGY  L 
TO  CHARLES  DIODATI.  -> 

At  length,  my  friend,  the  far  sent  letters  come 

Charged  with  thy  kindness,  to  their  destin'd  home ; 

They  come,  at  length,  from  Deva's  Western  side 

Where  prone  she  seeks  the  salt  Vergivian  tide. 

Trust  me,  my  joy  is  great  that  thou  shouldst  be, 

Though  born  of  foreign  race,  yet  born  for  me, 

And  that  my  sprightly  friend,  now  free  to  roam, 

Must  seek  again  so  soon  his  wonted  home. 

I  well  content,  where  Thames  with  refluent  tide, 

My  native  city  laves,  meantime  reside, 

Nor  zeal  nor  duty,  now,  my  steps  impel 

To  reedy  Cam,  and  my  forbidden  cell. 

Nor  aught  of  pleasure  in  those  fields  have  I, 

That,  to  the  musing  bard,  all  shade  deny. 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON.       15.. 
Tis  time,  that  I,  a  pedant's  threats  disdain, 
And  fly  from  wrongs  my  soul  will  ne'er  sustain. 
If  peaceful  days,  in  letter'd  leisure  spent, 
Beneath  my  father's  roof,  be  banishment, 
Then  call  me  banish'd,  I  will  ne'er  refuse 
A  name  expressive  of  the  lot  I  choose. 
I  would,  that,  exiled  to  the  Pontick  shore, 
Rome's  hapless  bard  had  suFer'd  nothing  more. 
He  then  had  equall'd  even  Homer's  lays, 
And  Virgil !  thou  hadst  won  but  second  praiso 
For  here  I  woo  the  muse  ;  with  no  control, 
And  here  my  books — my  life — absorb  me  whole 
Here  too  I  visit,  or  to  smile,  or  weep. 
The  winding  theatre's  majestick  sweep  , 
The  grave  or  gay  colloquial  scene  recruits 
My  spirits,  spent  in  learning's  long  pursuits  ; 
Whether  some  senior  shrewd,  or  spendthrift  heir 
Suitor,  or  soldier,  now  unarm'd,  be  there. 
Or  some  coif'd  brooder  o'er  a  ten  years'  cause, 
Thunder  the  Norman  gibb'rish  of  the  laws. 
The  lacquey,  there,  oft  dupes  the  wary  sire, 
And,  artful,  speeds  th'  enamour'd  son's  desire 
There,  virgins  oft,  unconscious  what  they  prove. 
What  love  is,  know  not,  yet  unknowmg,  love. 
Or,  if  impassion'd  Tragedy  wield  high 
The  bloody  sceptre,  give  her-locks  to  fly 
Wild  as  the  winds,  and  roll  her  haggard  eye, 
I  gaze,  and  grieve,  still  cherishing  my  grief, 
At  times,  e'en  bitter  tears  !  yield  sweet  relief. 
As  when  from  bliss  untasted  torn  away. 
Some  youth  dies,  hapless,  on  his  bridal  day, 
Or  when  the  ghost,  sent  back  to  shades  below, 
Fills  the  assassin's  heart  with  vengeful  wo. 
When  Troy,  or  Argos,  the  dire  scene  affords, 
Or  Croon's  hall  laments  its  guilty  lords. 
Nor  always  city-pent,  or  pent  at  home, 
I  dwell ;  but,  when  spring  calls  me  forth  to  roam 


5S      TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 

iJxpatiate  in  our  proud  suburban  shades 

Df  branching  elm,  that  never  sun  pervades. 

Here  many  a  virgin  troop  I  may  descry, 

Like  stars  of  mildest  influence,  gliding  by. 

Oh  forms  divine  !  Oh  looks  that  might  inspire 

E'en  Jove  himself,  grown  old,  with  young  desire  * 

Oft  have  I  gazed  on  gem-surpassing  eyes, 

Out-sparkling  every  star  that  gilds  the  skies. 

Necks  whiter  than  the  ivory  arm  bestowed 

By  Jove  on  Pelops,  or  the  milky  road ! 

Bright  locks,  Love's  golden  snare  !  these  falling  low 

Those  playing  wanton  o'er  the  graceful  brow  ! 

Cheeks  too,  more  winning  sweet  than  after  show'r 

Adonis  turn'd  to  Flora's  fav'rite  flower  ! 

Yield,  heroines,  yield,  and  ye  who  shar'd  th'  embrace 

Of  Jupiter  in  ancient  times,  give  place ! 

Give  place,  ye  turbann'd  fair  of  Persia's  coast ! 

And  ye,  not  less  renown'd,  Assyria's  boast ! 

Submit,  ye  nymphs  of  Greece  !  ye,  once  the  bloom 

Of  llion  !  and  all  ye,  of  haughty  Rome. 

Who  swept,  of  old,  her  theatres  with  trains 

Redundant,  and  still  live  in  classick  strains  ! 

To  British  damsels  beauty's  palm  is  due, 

Aliens  !  to  follow  them  is  fame  for  you. 

Oh  city,  founded  by  Dardanian  hands, 

Whose  towering  front  the  circling  realm  commands, 

Too  blest  abode  !  no  loveliness  we  see 

Ln  all  the  earth,  but  it  abounds  in  thee. 

The  virgin  multitude  that  daily  meets. 

Radiant  with  gold  and  beauty,  in  thy  streets, 

Out-numbers  all  her  train  of  starry  fires, 

With  which  Diana  gilds  thy  lofty  Lspires. 

Fame  says,  that  wafted  hither  by  her  doves, 

With  all  her  host  of  quiver-bearing  loves, 

Venus,  preferring  Paphian  scenes  no  more. 

Has  fix'd  her  empire  on  thy  nobler  shore. 

But  lest  the  sightless  boy  enforce  my  stay, 

leave  these  happv  walls,  while  yet  I  may 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON.     153 

Immortal  Moly  shall  secure  my  heart 

From  all  the  sorc'ry  of  Circaean  art, 

And  1  will  e'en  repass  Cam's  reedy  pools 

To  face  once  more  the  warfare  of  the  schools. 

Meantime  accept  this  trifle  !  rhymes  though  few, 

Yet  such  as  prove  thy  friend's  remembrance  true 


ELEGY  n. 


DEATH  OF  THE  UNIVERSITY  BEADLE 
AT  CAMBRIDGE. 

Composed  by  Milton  in  the  A7th  year  of  his  age 

Thee,  whose  refulgent  staff,  and  summons  clear, 
Minerva's  flock  long  time  was  wont  t'  obey, 

Although  thyself  an  herald,  famous  here, 

The  last  of  heralds.  Death,  has  snatch'd  away. 

He  calls  on  all  alike,  nor  even  deigns 

To  spare  the  office,  that  himself  sustains 

Thy  locks  were  whiter  than  the  plumes  display'd 

By  Lcda's  paramour  in  ancient  time, 
But  thou  wast  worthy  ne'er  to  have  decay'd, 

Or  ^son-like,  to  know  a  second  prime, 
Worthy,  for  whom  some  goddess  shall  have  won 
New  life,  oft  kneeling  to  Apollo'B  son. 

Commission'd  to  convene,  with  Jiasty  call, 

The    gowned   tribes,    how   graceful   wouldst   thou 
stand  ! 

So  stood  Cyllenius  erst  in  Priam's  hall. 

Wing-footed  messenger  of  love's  command  ! 


54       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 

And  so  Eurybates,  when  he  address'd 
To  Peleus'  son,  Atrides'  proud  behest. 

Dread  queen  of  sepulchres  !  whose  rig'rous  laws 
And  watchful  eyes,  run  through  the  realms  below. 

Oh  oft  too  adverse  to  Mmerva's  cause  1 
Too  often  to  the  muse  not  less  a  foe  '. 

Choose  meaner  marks,  and  with  more  equal  aim 

Pierce  useless  drones,  earth's  burthen,  and  its  shame 

Flow,  therefore,  tears  for  him,  from  ev'ry  eye. 

All  ye  disciples  of  the  muses,  weep  ! 
Assembling,  all,  in  robes  of  sable  die. 

Around  his  bier,  lament  his  endless  sleep  ! 
And  let  complaining  elegy  rehearse, 
In  every  school,  her  sweetest,  saddest  verse 


ELEGY  III. 

ON 

THE  DEATH 

OF   THE 

BISHOP  OF  WINCHESTER. 

Composed  in  the  Author's  17th  year. 

Silent  I  sat,  dejected,  and  alone. 

Making,  in  thought,  the  publick  woes  my  own, 

When,  first,  arose  the  image  in  my  breast 

Of  England's  suffering  by  tliat  scourge,  the  PesI ! 


^"^^1 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON.       155 
How  death,  his  fan'ral  torch  and  sithe  in  hand, 
Entering  the  lordliest  mansions  of  the  land 
Has  laid  the  gem-illumin'd  palace  low, 
And  levcll'd  tribes  of  nobles  at  a  blow. 
I,  next,  deplor'd  the  fam'd  paternal  pair, 
Too  soon  to  ashes  turn'd,  and  empty  air  ! 
The  heroes  next,  whom  snatch'd  into  the  skies, 
All  Belgia  saw,  and  followed  with  her  sighs, 
But  thee  far  most  I  mourn'd,  regretted  most, 
Winton's  chief  shepherd,  and  her  worthiest  boast ! 
Pour'd  out  in  tears  I  thus  complaining  said ; 
**  Death,  next  in  pow'r  to  him,  who  rules  the  dead 
Is't  not  enough  that  all  the  woodlands  yield 
To  thy  fell  force,  and  ev'ry  verdant  field, 
That  lilies,  at  one  noisome  blast  of  thine. 
And  e'en  the  Cyprian  queen's  own  roses  pine, 
That  oaks  themselves,  although  the  running  rill 
Suckle  their  roots,  must  wither  at  thy  will. 
That  all  the  winged  nations,  even  those. 
Whose  heav'n-directed  flight  the  future  shows> 
And  all  the  beasts,  that  in  dark  forests  stray. 
And  all  the  herds  of  Proteus  are  thy  prey. 
All  envious  !  arm'd  with  pow'rs  so  unconfin'd  ! 
Why  stain  thy  hands  with  blood  of  human  kind  ? 
Why  take  delight  with  darts,  that  never  roam. 
To  chase  a  heav'n-born  spirit  from  her  home  ?" 

While  thus  1  mourn'd  the  star  of  evening  stood, 
Now  newly  ris'n  above  the  western  flood. 
And  Phoebus,  from  his  morning-goal,  again 
Had  reach'd  the  gulfs  of  the  Iberian  main. 
I  wish'd  repose,  and,  on  my  couch  declin'd, 
Took  early  rest,  to  night  and  sleep  resign'd ; 
When — Oh  for  words  to  paint  what  I  behel*^  * 
I  seem'd  to  wander  in  a  spacious  field. 
Where  all  the  champaign  glow'd  with  purple  light 
Like  that  of  sun-rise  on  the  mountain  height ; 


156       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 
Flowers  over  all  the  field,  of  every  hue 
That  ever  Iris  wore,  luxuriant  grew. 
Nor  Chloris,  with  whom  am'rous  Zephyrs  play, 
E'er  dress'd  Alcinous'  garden  half  so  gay. 
A  silver  current,  like  the  Tagus,  roll'd 
O'er  golden  sands,  but  sands  of  purer  gold, 
With  dewy  airs  Favonius  fann'd  the  flow'rs, 
With  airs  awaken'd  under  rosy  bow'rs. 
Such,  poets  feign,  irradiated  all  o'er 
The  sun's  abode  on  India's  utmost  shore. 

While  I,  that  splendour,  and  the  mingled  shade 
Of  fruitful  vines,  with  wonder  fix'd  survey'd, 
At  once,  with  looks  that  beam'd  celestial  grace, 
The  seer  of  Winton  stood  before  my  face. 
His  snowy  vesture's  hem  descending  low 
His  golden  sandals  swept,  and  pure  as  snow 
New-fallen  shone  the  mitre  on  his  brow. 
Where'er  he  trod,  a  tremulous  sweet  sound 
Of  gladness  shook  the  flow'ry  scene  around  . 
Attendant  angels  clap  their  starry  wings, 
The  trumpet  shakes  the  sky,  all  asther  rings  , 
Each  chants  his  welcome,  folds  him  to  his  breast, 
And  thus  a  sweeter  voice  than  all  the  rest : 
"  Ascend,  my  son  !  thy  father's  kingdom  share  ' 
My  son  !  henceforth  be  freed  from  ev'ry  care  !" 

So  spake  the  voice,  and  at  its  tender  close 
With  psalt'ry's  sound  th'  angelick  band  arose. 
Then  night  retired,  and  chas'd  by  pawning  day 
The  visionary  bliss  pass'd  all  away. 
I  mourn'd  my  banisl/d  sleep,  with  fond  concern  j 
Frequent  to  me  maj  dreams  like  this  return 


(  157  ) 
ELEGY  IV. 

TO   HIS   TUTOR, 

THOMAS  YOUNG, 

CHAPI>AIN  TO  THE  ENGLISH  FACTOKV  AT  HAMBURG 

Written  in  the  Author's  18th  year. 

Hence  my  epistle — skim  the  deep — fly  o'er 
Von  smooth  expanse  to  the  Teutonick  shore  ! 
Haste — lest  a  friend  should  grieve  for  thy  delay— 
And  the  gods  grant,  that  nothing  thwart  thy  way 
1  will  myself  invoke  the  king,  who  binds, 
In  his  Sicanian  echoing  vault,  the  winds. 
With  Doris  and  her  nymphs,  and  all  the  throng 
Of  azure  gods,  to  speed  thee  safe  along. 
But  rather,  to  ensure  thy  happier  haste, 
Ascend  Medea's  chariot,  if  thou  may'st ; 
Or  that,  whence  young  Triptolemus  of  yore 
Descended,  welcome  on  the  Scythian  shore 

The  sands,  that  line  the  German  coast,  descried. 
To  opulent  Hamburga  turn  aside  ! 
So  called,  if  legendary  fame  be  true. 
From  Kama,  whom  a  club-arm'd  Cimbrian  slew  ! 
There  lives,  deep-learn'd  and  primitively  just, 
A  faithful  steward  of  his  christian  trust, 
My  friend,  and  favourite  inmate  of  my  heart. 
That  now  is  forced  to  want  its  better  part ! 
What  mountains  now,  and  seas,  alas  !  how  wide  '• 
From  me  this  other,  dearer  self  divide  ; 
Dear  as  the  sage  renown'd  for  moral  truth 
To  the  prime  spirit  of  the  attick  youth  ' 

Vol.  hi.  14 


158       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON 
Dear  as  the  Stagyrite  to  Aramon's  son, 
His  pupil,  who  disdain'd  the  world  he  won ! 
Nor  so  did  Chiron,  or  so  Phoenix  shine 
In  young  Achilles'  eyes,  as  he  in  mine. 
First  led  by  him  thro'  sweet  Aonian  shade, 
Each  sacred  haunt  of  Pindus  I  survey 'd  , 
And  favour'd  by  the  muse  whom  I  implor'd, 
Thrice  on  my  lip  the  hallow'd  stream  I  pour'd. 
But  thrice  the  sun's  resplendent  chariot  roU'd 
To  Aries,  has  new  ting'd  his  fleece  with  gold, 
And  Chloris  twice  has  dress'd  the  meadows  gay, 
And  twice  has  summer  parch'd  their  bloom  away, 
Since  last  delighted  on  his  looks  I  hung. 
Or  my  ear  drank  the  musick  of  his  tongue  ; 
Fly,  therefore,  and  surpass  the  tempest's  speed  ; 
Aware  thyself,  that  there  is  urgent  need  ! 
Him,  entering,  thou  shalt  haply  seated  see 
Beside  his  spouse,  his  infants  on  his  knee. 
Or  turning,  page  by  page,  with  studious  look. 
Some  bulky  father,  or  God's  holy  book. 
Or  minist'ring  (which  is  his  weightiest  care) 
To  Christ's  assembled  flock  their  heavenl}'  fare. 
Give  him,  whatever  his  employment  be, 
Such  gratulation  as  he  claims  from  me  ! 
And,  with  a  downcast  eye,  and  carriage  meek, 
Addressing  him,  forget  not  thus  to  speak  ! 

"  If,  compass'd  round  with  arms,  thou  canst  attend 
To  verse,  verse  greets  thee  from  a  distant  friend. 
Long  due,  and  late,  I  left  the  English  shore  ; 
But  make  me  welcome  for  that  cause  the  more  ! 
Such  from  Ulysses,  his  chaste  wife  to  cheer 
The  slow  epistle  came,  though  late,  sincere 
But  wherefore  this  ?  why  palliate  I  the  deeu 
For  which  the  culprit's  self  could  hardly  plead  ? 
Self-charged,  and  self-condemn'd,  his  proper  part 
He  feels  neglected,  with  an  aching  heart : 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON        159 
But  thou  forgive — delinquents,  who  confess, 
And  pray  forgiveness,  merit  anger  less ; 
From  timid  foes,  the  lion  turns  away. 
Nor  yawns  upon  or  rends  a  crouching  prey : 
Even  pike-wielding  Thracians  learn  to  spare, 
Won  by  soft  influence  of  a  suppliant  prayer  ; 
And  hoav'n's  dread  thunderbolt  arrested  stands 
By  a  cheap  victim,  and  uplifted  hands. 
Long  had  he  wish'd  to  write,  but  was  withheld, 
And  writes  at  last,  by  love  alone  compell'd, 
For  fame,  too  often  true,  when  she  alarms, 
Repo»  ts  thy  neighbouring  fields  a  scene  of  arms  i 
Thy  city  against  fierce  besiegers  barr'd, 
And  all  the  Saxon  chiefs  for  fight  prepar'd. 
Enyo  wastes  thy  country  wide  around. 
And  saturates  with  blood  the  tainted  ground  ; 
Mars  rests  contented  in  his  Thrace  no  more, 
But  goads  his  steeds  to  fields  of  German  gore. 
The  ever  verdant  olive  fades  and  dies, 
And  peace,  the  trumpet-hating  goddess,  flies, 
Flies  from  that  earth  which  justice  long  had  left, 
And  leaves  the  world  of  its  last  guard  bereft. 

Thus  horrour  girds  thee  round.     Meantime  alone 
Thou  dwell'st,  and  helpless  in  a  soil  unknown  ; 
Poor  and  receiving  from  a  foreign  hand 
The  aid  denied  thee  in  thy  native  land. 
Oh,  ruthless  country,  and  unfeeling  more 
Than  thy  own  billow-beaten  chalky  shore  ! 
Leav'st  thou  to  foreign  care  the  worthies,  giv'n 
By  Providence  to  guide  thy  steps  to  Heav'n  •* 
His  ministers  commission'd  to  proclaim 
Eternal  blessings  in  a  Saviour's  name  ! 
Ah  then  most  worthy,  with  a  soul  unfed, 
In  Stygian  night  to  lie  for  ever  dead. 
So  once  the  venerable  Tishbite  stray 'd 
An  exil'd  fugitive  from  shade  to  shade, 


160       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 
Wlien,  flying  Ahab,  and  his  fury  wife, 
In  long  Arabian  wilds  he  shclter'd  life  ; 
So,  from  Philippi,  wander'd  forth  forlorn 
Cilician  Paul,  with  sounding  scourges  torn  ; 
And  Christ  himself  so  left,  and  trod  no  more, 
Tho  thankless  Gergesenes'  forbidden  shore. 

But  thou  take  courage  !  strive  against  despair  ! 
Quake  not  with  dread,  nor  nourish  anxious  care 
Grim  war  indeed  on  every  side  appears, 
And  thou  art  menac'd  by  a  thousand  spears  ; 
Yet  none  shall  drink  thy  blood,  or  shall  offend. 
E'en  the  defenceless  bosom  of  my  friend. 
For  thee  the  ^gis  of  thy  God  shall  hide, 
Jehovah's  self  shall  combat  on  thy  side  ; 
The  same,  who  vanquish 'd,  under  Sion's  tow'ra 
At  silent  midnight,  all  Assyria's  pow'rs, 
The  same  who  overthrew  in  ages  past, 
Damascus'  sons  that  laid  Samaria  waste  ! 
Their  king  he  fill'd,  and  them  with  fatal  fears, 
By  mimick  sounds  of  clarions  in  their  ears. 
Of  hoofs,  and  wheels,  and  neighings  from  afar 
Of  clashing  armour,  and  the  din  of  war. 

Thou,  therefore,  (as  the  most  afflicted)  may 
Still  hope,  and  triumph  o'er  the  evil  day  ; 
Look  forth,  expecting  happier  times  to  come 
And  to  enjoy,  once  more,  thy  native  home  ' 


-> 


o«l> 


ELEGY  V. 


APPROACH  OF  SPRING. 

Written  in  the  Author's  20th  Year. 

Time,  never  wand'ring  from  his  annual  round, 
Bids  Zephyr  breathe  the  spring,  and  thaw  the  grouni ; 
Bleak  winter  flies,  new  verdure  clothes  the  plain, 
And  earth  assumes  her  transient  youth  again. 
Dream  I,  or  also  to  the  spring  belong 
Increase  of  genius,  and  new  pow'rs  of  song  ? 
Spring  gives  them,  and  how  strange  soe'er  it  seems< 
Impels  me  now  to  some  harmonious  themes. 
Castalia's  fountain  and  the  forked  hill 
By  day,  by  night,  my  raptur'd  fancy  fill ; 
My  bosom  burns  and  heaves,  I  hear  within 
A  sacred  sound,  that  prompts  me  to  begin. 
Lo !  Phcebus  comes,  with  his  bright  hair  he  blends 
The  radiant  laurel  wreath  ;  Phoibus  descends ; 
I  mount,  and,  undepress'd  by  cumb  rous  clay, 
Through  cloudy  regions  win  my  easy  way  ; 
Rapt  through  poetick  shadowy  haunts  I  fly  • 
The  shrines  all  open  to  my  dauntless  eye, 
My  spirit  searches  all  the  realms  of  light, 
And  no  Tartarean  gulfs  elude  my  sight. 
But  this  ecstatick  trance — this  glorious  storm 
Of  inspiration— what  will  it  perform  ? 
Spring  claims  the  verse,  that  with  his  influence  glows. 
And  shall  be  paid  with  what  himself  bestows. 
14* 


162       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 

lliou,  veii'd  with  op'ning  foliai^e,  lead'st  the  throng 
Of  feather 'd  minstrels,  Philomel !  in  song  ; 
Let  us,  in  concert,  to  the  season  sing, 
Civick,  and  sylvan  heralds  of  the  spring  ! 

With  notes  triumphant,  spring's  approach  declare 
To  spring,  ye  Muses,  annual  tribute  bear  ! 
The  Orient  left,  and  Ethiopia's  plains, 
The  sun  now  northward  turns  his  golden  reins ; 
Night  creeps  not  now  ;  yet  rules  with  gentle  sway  j 
And  drives  her  dusky  horrours  swift  away ; 
Now  less  fatigued,  on  this  ethereal  plain 
Bootes  follows  his  celestial  wain  ; 
And  now  the  radiant  sentinels  above, 
Less  num'rous,  watch  around  the  courts  of  Jove, 
For,  with  the  night,  force,  ambush,  slaughter  fly 
And  no  gigantick  guilt  alarms  the  sky. 
Now  haply  says  some  shepherd,  while  he  views. 
Recumbent  on  a  rock,  the  redd'ning  dews. 
This  night,  this  surely,  PhoDbus  miss'd  the  fair, 
Who  stops  his  chariot  by  her  am'rous  care. 
Cynthia,  delighted  by  the  morning's  glow, 
Speeds  to  the  woodland,  and  resumes  her  bow , 
Resigns  her  beams,  and  glad  to  disappear, 
Blesses  his  aid,  who  shortens  her  career. 
Come — Phffibus  cries — Aurora  come — too  late 
Thou  ling'rest  slumb'ring  with  thy  wither'd  mate  '■ 
Leave  him,  and  to  Hymettu's  top  repair  ! 
Thy  darling  Cephalus  expects  thee  there. 
The  goddess,  with  a  blush,  her  love  betrays, 
But  mounts,  and  driving  rapidly,  obeys. 
Earth  now  desires  thee,  Pho&bus !  and  t'  engage 
Thy  warm  embrace,  casts  off  the  guise  of  age ; 
Desires  thee,  and  deserves  ;  for  who  so  sweet, 
When  her  rich  bosom  courts  thy  genial  heat  r 
Her  breath  imparts  to  ev'ry  breeze  that  blows, 
Arabia's  harvest,  and  the  Paphian  rose. 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON.       163 
Her  lofty  front  ^he  diadems  around 
With  sacred  pines,  liko  Ops  on  Ida  crown'd : 
Her  dewy  locks,  with  various  flow'rs  new-blown, 
She  interweaves,  various,  and  all  her  own. 
For  Proserpine,  in  such  a  wreath  attir'd, 
Ta3narian  Dis  himself  with  love  inspir'd. 
Fear  not,  lest,  cold  and  coy,  the  nymph  refuse  I 
Herself,  with  all  her  sighing  Zephyrs,  sues ; 
Each  courts  thee,  fanning  soft  his  scented  wing, 
And  all  her  groves  with  warbled  wishes  ring. 
Now,  unendow'd  and  indigent,  aspires, 
The  am'rous  Earth  to  engage  thy  warm  desires, 
But,  rich  in  balmy  drugs,  assist  thy  claim, 
Divine  Physician  !  to  that  glorious  name. 
If  splendid  recompense,  if  gifts  can  move 
DosiiC  in  thee,  (gifts  often  purchase  love,) 
8he  otters  all  the  wealth  her  mountains  hide, 
And  all  that  rests  beneath  the  boundless  tide. 
How  oft,  when  headlong  from  the  heav'nly  steep, 
She  sees  theo  playing  in  the  western  deep. 
How  oft  she  cries — "  Ah  Phcebus  I  why  repair 
Thy  wasted  force*,  why  seek  refreshment  there ! 
Can  Tethys  win  thee  .''  wherefore  shouldst  thou  lave 
A  face  so  fair  in  her  unpleasant  wave  ? 
Come,  seek  my  green  xetreats,  and  rather  choose 
To  cool  thy  tresses  in  my  crystal  dews. 
The  grassy  turf  shall  y;eld  thee  sweeter  rest ; 
Come,  lay  thy  evening  gJoriea  on  my  breast, 
And  breathing  fresh,  through  many  a  humid  rose 
^oft  whispering  airs  shall  lull  thee  to  repose  \ 
No  fears  I  feel  like  Seraele  to  die. 
Nor  let  thy  burning  wheels  approach  too  nigh, 
For  thou  canst  govern  them,  hero  therefore  rest 
And  lay  thy  evening  glories  on  mj  breast  .^" 

Thus  breathes  the  wanton  earth  her  am'rous  flame, 
And  all  her  countless  offspring  feel  the  same  ; 


L64       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 
For  Cupid  now  through  every  region  strays, 
■  Bright'ning  his  faded  fires  with  solar  rays, 
His  new-strung  bow  sends  forth  a  deadlier  sound, 
And  his  new-pointed  shafts  more  deeply  wound ; 
Nor  Dian's  self  escapes  him  now  untried, 
Nor  even  Vesta  at  her  altar-side  ; 
His  mother  too  repairs  her  beauty's  wane, 
And  seems  sprung  newly  from  the  deep  again. 
Exulting  youths  the  Hymeneal  sing, 
With  Hymen's  name  roofs,  rocks,  and  valleys,  ring; 
He,  new-attired,  and  by  the  season  dress'd, 
Proceeds,  all  fragrant,  in  his  saffron  vest. 
Now,  many  a  golden-cinctur'd  virgin  roves 
To  taste  the  pleasures  of  the  fields  and  groves, 
All  wish,  and  each  alike,  some  fav'rite  youth 
Hers  in  the  bonds  of  Hymeneal  truth. 
Now  pipes  the  shepherd  through  his  reeds  agam, 
Nor  Phillis  wants  a  song,  that  suits  the  strain. 
With  songs  the  seaman  hails  the  starry  sphere, 
And  dolphins  rise  from  the  abyss  to  hear  .; 
Jove  feels  himself  the  season,  sports  again 
With  his  fair  spouse,  and  banquets  all  his  train. 
Now  too  the  Satyrs,  in  the  dusk  of  eve. 
Their  mazy  dance  through  flow'ry  meadows  weav« 
And  neither  god  nor  goat,  but  both  in  kind, 
Silvanus  wreath'd  with  cypress,  skips  behind, 
The  Dryads  leave  their  hollow  sylvan  cells 
To  roam  the  banks,  and  solitary  dells ; 
Pan  riots  now  ;  and  from  his  amorous  chafe 
Ceres  and  Cybele  seem  hardly  safe, 
And  Faunus,  all  on  fire  ,o  reach  the  prize. 
In  chase  of  some  enticing  Oread  dies ; 
She  bounds  before,  but  fears  toe?  swift  a  bound. 
And  hidden  lies,  but  wishes  to  be  found. 
Our  shades  entice  th'  Immortals  from  above, 
And  some  kind  pow'r  presides  o'er  every  grove  ', 
And  long,  ye  pow'rs,  o'er  every  grove  preside, 
For  all  is  safe,  and  bliss,  where  ve  abide  .' 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON.       ll)5 
Return,  O  Jove  !  the  age  of  gold  restore — 
Why  choose  to  dwell  where  storms  and  thunders  roar  ' 
At  least,  thou,  Plioebus  !  moderate  thy  speed  ! 
Let  not  the  vernal  hours  too  swift  proceed, 
Command  rough  winter  back,  nor  yield  the  pole 
Too  soon  to  Night's  encroaching  long  control ' 


ELEGY  VL 
TO  CHARLES  DIODATI, 

Who,  while  he  spent  his  Christmas  in  the  country,  sent  the 
Author  a  poetical  epistle,  in  which  he  requested  that  his 
verses,  if  not  so  good  as  usual,  might  be  excused  on  account 
of  the  many  feasts  to  which  his  friends  invited  him,  and  which 
would  not  allow  him  leisure  to  finish  them  as  he  wished. 

With  no  rich  viands  overcharg'd,  I  send 
Health,   which  perchance   you  want,   my  pamper'd 

friend ; 
But  wherefore  should  thy  muse  tempt  mine  away 
From  what  she  loves,  from  darkness  into  day  ? 
Art  thou  desirous  to  be  told  how  well 
1  love  thee,  and  in  verse  ?  verse  cannot  tell . 
For  verse  has  bounds,  and  must  in  measure  move  ^ 
But  neither  bounds  nor  measure  knows  my  lo?e. 
How  pleasant,  in  tny  lines  described,  appear 
December's  harmless  sports,  and  rural  cheer ! 
French  spirits  kindling  with  cerulean  fires, 
And  all  such  gambols  as  the  time  inspires  ' 

Think  not  that  wine  argainst  good  verse  offends  , 
The  muse  and  Bacchus  have  been  rJways  friends, 


166       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON 
Nor  PhoBbus  blushes  sometimes  to  be  found 
With  ivy,  than  with  laurel,  erown'd. 
The  Nine  themselves  ofttimes  have  join'd  the  song 
And  revels  of  the  Baccaanalian  throng ; 
Not  even  Ovid  could  in  Scythian  air 
Sing  sweetly — why  ?  nt)  vine  would  flourish  there. 
What  in  brief  numbers  sung  Anacreon's  muse  ? 
Wine,  and  thi  rose,  that  sparkling  wine  bedews. 
Pindar  v/ith  Bacchus  glows — his  every  line 
Breathes  the  rich  fragrance  of  inspiring  wine, 
While,  with  loud  crash  o'erturn'd,  the  chariot  liefl^ 
And  brown  with  dust  the  fiery  courser  flies. 
The  Roman  lyrist  steep'd  in  wine  his  lays 
So  sweet  in  Glycera's,  and  Chloe's  praise. 
Now  to  the  plenteous  feast  and  mantling  bowl 
Nourish  the  vigour  of  thy  sprightly  soul ; 
The  flowing  goblet  makes  thy  numbers  flow, 
And  casks  not  wine  alone,  but  verse  bestow. 
Thus  Phoebus  favours,  and  the  arts  attend, 
Whom  Bacchus,  and  whom  Ceres,  botlr  befriend. 
What  wonder,  then,  thy  verses  are  so  sweet. 
In  which  these  triple  powers  so  kindly  meet ! 
The  lute  now  also  sounds,  with  gold  inwrought, 
And  touch'd   with  flying  fingers  nicely  taught. 
In  tap'stried  halls,  high  roof'd,  the  sprightly  lyre 
Directs  the  dancers  of  the  virgin  choir. 
If  dull  repletion  fright  the  Muse  away, 
Sights,  gay  as  these,  may  oore  invite  her  stay  ; 
And,  trust  me,  while  the  iv  ry  keys  resound. 
Fair  damsels  sport,  and  perfumes  steam  around, 
Apollo'sHinfluence,  like  ethereal  flame. 
Shall  animate  at  once  thy  glowing  frame. 
And  all  the  Muse  shall  rush  into  thy  breast. 
By  love  and  musick's  blended  pow'rs  possess'd, 
For  num'rous  power's  like  Elegy  befriend, 
Hear  her  sweet  voice,  and  at  her  call  attend ; 
Her  Bacchus,  Ceros,  Venus,  all  approve. 
And,  with  his  blushing  mother,  gentle  Love  • 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON.       167 
Hence  to  such  bards  we  grant  the  copious  use 
Of  banquets,  and  the  vine's  delicious  juice. 
But  they  who  demi-gods  and  heroes  praise, 
And  feats  perform'd  in  Jove's  more  youthful  days, 
Who  now  the  counsels  of  high  heaven  explore, 
Now  shades,  that  echo  the  Cerberean  roar, 
Simply  let  these,  like  him  of  Samos  live. 
Let  herbs  to  them  a  bloodless  banquet  give  ; 
In  beechen  goblets  let  their  bev'rage  shine, 
Cool  from  the  crystal  spring,  their  sober  wine  ! 
Their  youth  should  pass,  in  innocence,  secure 
From  stain  licentious,  and  in  manners  pure, 
Pure  as  the  priest,  when  rob'd  in  white  he  stands, 
The  fresh  lustration  ready  in  his  hands. 
Thus  Limus  liv'd,  and  thus,  as  poets  write, 
Tiresias,  wiser  for  his  loss  of  sight  I 
Thus  exil'd  Chalcas,  thus  the  bard  of  Thrace, 
Melodious  tamer  of  the  savage  race  ! 
Thus  train'd  by  temp'rance,  Homer  led,  of  yore, 
His  chief  of  Ithaca  from  shore  to  shore, 
Through  magick  Circe's  monster-peopled  reign, 
And  shoals  insidious  with  the  syren  train ; 
And  through  the  realms,  where  grizzly  spectres  dwell. 
Whose  tribes  he  fetter'd  in  a  gory  spell ; 
For  these  are  sacred  bards,  and,  from  above. 
Drink  large  infusions  from  the  mind  of  Jove  ! 

Wouldst  thou,  (perhaps  'tis  hardly  worth  thine  ear, 
Wouldst  thou  be  told  my  occupation  here  ? 
The  promised  King  of  peace  employs  my  pen, 
Th'  eternal  cov'nant  made  for  guilty  men. 
The  new-born  Deity  with  infant  cries 
Filling  the  sordid  hovel,  where  he  lies; 
The  hymning  angels,  and  the  herald  star, 
That  led  the  Wise,  who  sought  him  from  afar, 
And  idols  on  their  own  unhallow'd  shore 
Dash'd,  at  his  birth,  to  b©  revei  d  no  more  '. 


1G8       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 

This  theme  on  reeds  of  Albion  I  rehearse  : 
The  dawn  of  that  blest  day  inspir'd  the  verse  , 
Verse,  that  rcserv'd  in  secret  shall  attend 
Thy  candid  voice  my  critick,  and  my  friend 


ELEGY  VII. 


Composed  in  the  Author's  l^th  year. 

As  yet  a  stranger  to  the  gentle  fires, 
That  Amathusia's  smiling  queen  inspires. 
Not  seldom  I  derided  Cupid's  darts. 
And  scorn'd  his  claim  to  rule  all  human  hearts. 
"  Go,  child,"  I  said,  "  transfix  the  tim'rous  dove ! 
An  easy  conquest  suits  an  infant  love  ; 
Enslave  the  sparrow,  for  such  prize  shall  be 
Sufficient  triumph  to  a  chief  like  thee  ! 
Why  aim  thy  idle  arms  at  human  kind  ? 
Thy  shafts  prevail  not  'gainst  the  noble  mind." 

The  Cyprian  heard,  and,  kindling  into  ire, 
(None  kindles  sooner)  burn'd  with  double  fire. 

It  was  the  spring,  and  newly  risen  day 
Peep'd  o'er  the  hamlets  on  the  first  of  May  j 
My  eyes,  too  tender  for  the  blaze  of  light, 
Still  sought  the  shelter  of  retiring  night. 
When  love  approach'd  in  painted  plumes  array'd, 
Th'  insidious  god  his  rattling  darts  betray'd, 
Nor  less  his  infant  features  and  the  sly, 
Sweet  intimations  of  his  threat  ning  eye. 
Such  the  Sigeian  boy  is  seen  above, 
Filling  the  goblet  for  imperial  Jove ; 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON.       1G9 
Such  he,  on  whom  the  nymphs  bestow'd  their  charms, 
Hylas,  who  perish 'd  in  a  Naiad's  arms, 
Angry  he  seem'd,  yet  graceful  in  his  ire, 
And  added  threats,  not  destitute  of  fire. 
"  My  power,"  he  said,  "  by  others'  pain  alone, 
*Twere  best  to  learn  :  now  learn  it  by  thy  own  ! 
With  those,  who  feel  my  power,  that  pow'r  attest ! 
And  in  thy  anguish  be  my  sway  confess'd  ! 
I  vanquish 'd  Phoebus,  though  returning  vain 
From  this  new  triumph  o'er  the  Python  slain, 
And,  when  ho  thinks  on  Daphne,  even  he 
"Will  yield  the  prize  of  archery  to  me. 
A  dart  less  true  the  Parthian  horseman  sped, 
Behind  him  kill'd,  and  conquer'd  as  he  fled ; 
Less  true  th'  expert  Cydonian,  and  less  true 
The  youth,  whose  shaft  his  latent  Procris  slew. 
Vanquish'd  by  me  see  huge  Orion  bend. 
By  rae  Alcides,  and  Alcides'  friend. 
At  me  should  Jove  himself  a  bolt  design. 
His  bosom  first  should  bleed  transfix'd  by  mine. 
But  all  thy  doubts  this  shaft  will  best  explain. 
Nor  shall  it  reach  thee  with  a  trivial  pain, 
Thy  Muse,  vain  youth  !  shall  not  thy  peace  emsurip, 
Nor  Phoebus'  serpent  yield  the  wound  a  cure.'* 

He  spoke,  and,  waving  a  bright  shaft  in  air, 
Sought  the  warm  bosom  of  the  Cyprian  fair. 

That  thus  a  child  should  bluster  in  my  ear, 
Provok'd  my  laughter,  more  than  mov'd  my  fear, 
I  shunn'd  not,  therefore,  publick  haunts,  but  stray  li 
Careless  in  city,  or  suburban  shade ; 
And  passing,  and  repassing,  nymphs,  that  mov'd 
With  grace  divine,  beheld  where'er  I  rov'd. 
Bright  shone  the  vernal  day,  with  double  blaze. 
As  beauty  gave  new  force  to  Phcebus'  rays ; 
By  no  grave  scruples  check'd  I  freely  ey'd 
The  dang'rDUs  show :  rash  youth  my  only  guide  j 

Vol.  IIL  15 


170       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 

And  many  a  look  of  many  a  fair  unknown 

Met  full  unable  to  control  my  own. 

But  one  I  mark'd,  (then  peace  forsook  my  breast,) 

One — Oh  how  far  superiour  to  the  rest ! 

What  lovely  features  !  such  the  Cyprian  queen 

Herself  might  wish,  and  Juno  wish  her  mien. 

The  very  nymph  was  she,  whom  when  I  dar'd 

His  arrows,  Love,  had  even  then  prepar'd  J 

Nor  was  himself  remote,  nor  unsupply'd 

With  torch  well-trimm'd  and  quiver  at  his  side 

Now  to  her  lips  he  clung,  her  eyelids  now, 

Then  settled  on  her  cheeks,  or  on  her  brow. 

And  with  a  thousand  wounds  from  ev'ry  part 

Pierc'd,  and  transpierced,  my  undefended  heart, 

A  fever,  new  to  me,  of  fierce  desire, 

Now  seiz'd  my  soul,  and  I  was  all  on  fire, 

But  she,  the  while,  whom  only  I  adore. 

Was  gone,  and  vanish 'd,  to  appear  no  more. 

In  silent  sadness  I  pursue  my  way  ; 

I  pause,  I  turn,  proceed,  yet  wish  to  stay, 

And  while  I  follow  her  in  thought,  bemoan 

With  tears,  my  soul's  delight  so  quickly  flown. 

When  Jove  had  hurl'd  him  to  the  Lemnian  coast, 

So  Vulcan  sorrow'd  for  Olympus  lost  : 

And  so  Oeclides,  sinking  into  night. 

From  the  deep  gulf  look'd  up  to  distant  light. 

Wretch  that  I  am,  wjiat  hopes  for  me  remair 
Who  cannot  cease  to  love,  yet  love  ip  vain  ? 
Ob  could  I  once,  once  more  behold  the  fair, 
Speak  to  her,  tell  her  of  the  panfrj  I  oeaj, 
^erhaps  she  is  not  adamant,  would  show 
Perhaps  some  pity  at  my  tale  of  wo. 
Oh  inasupicious  flame — 'tis  mine  to  prove 
A  matchless  instance  of  disastrous  love. 
Ah  spare  me,  gentle  pow'r  ! — If  such  thou  be, 
Let  not  thy  deeds,  and  nature,  disagree. 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON.       17J 
Spare  me,  and  I  will  worship  at  no  shrine 
With  vow  and  sacrifice,  save  only  thine. 
Now  I  revere  thy  fires,  thy  bow,  thy  darts : 
Now  own  thee  sov'reign  of  all  human  hearts. 
Remove  !  no — grant  me  still  this  raging  wo  ! 
Sweet  is  the  wretchedness  that  lovers  know 
But  pierce  hereafter  (should  I  chance  to  see 
One  destin'd  mine)  at  once  both  her  and  me. 

Such  were  the  trophies,  that,  in  earlier  days, 
By  vanity  seduced,  I  toil'd  to  raise. 
Studious,  yet  indolent,  and  urg'd  by  youth. 
That  worst  of  teachers  !  from  the  ways  of  truth  ; 
Till  learning  taught  me,  in  his  shady  bow'r. 
To  quit  love's  servile  yoke,  and  spurn  his  pow'r. 
Then,  on  a  sudden,  the  fierce  flame  suppress'd, 
A  frost  continual  settled  on  my  breast, 
Whence  Cupid  fears  his  flames  extinct  to  see. 
And  Venus  dreads  a  Diomede  in  me. 


EPIGRAMS. 


ON   THE    INVENTOR   OF    GUNS. 


Praise  in  old  time  the  rage  Prometheus  won. 
Who  stole  ethereal  radiance  from  the  sun ; 
But  greater  he,  whose  bold  invention  strove 
To  emulate  the  fiery  bolts  of  Jove. 


[The  poems  on  the  subject  of  the  Gunpowder  Trea- 
son I  have  not  translated,  both  because  the  matter  of 
them  is  unpleasant,  and  because  they  are  written  with 
an  asperity,  which,  however  it  might  be  warranted  in 
Milton's  days,  would  be  extremely  unseasonable  now.] 


(172) 

1 

1                                                                                                                                                                                                   J 

TO  LEONORA  SINGING  AT  ROME.* 

! 

Another  Leonora  once  inspir'd 
Tasso,  with  fatal  love  to  phfensy  fir'd ; 
But  how  much  happier  liv'd  he  now,  were  he, 
Pierc'd  with  whatever  pangs  for  love  of  thee  ! 
Since  could  he  hear  that  heavenly  voice  of  thine, 
With  Adriana's  lute  of  sound  divine, 
Fiercer  than  Pentheus,  though  his  eye  might  roll, 
Or  idiot  apathy  benumb  his  soul. 
You  still,  with  medicinal  sounds,  might  cheer 
His  senses  wandering  in  a  blind  career  ; 
And  sweetly  breathing  through  his  wounded  breast. 
Charm,  with  soul-soothing  song,  his  thoughts  to  rest 


TO  THE  SAME. 

Naples,  too  credulous,  ah  !  boast  no  more 
The  sweet-voic'd  Siren  buried  on  thy  shore, 
That,  when  Parthenope  deceas'd,  she  gave 
Her  sacred  dust  to  a  Chalcidick  grave, 
For  still  she  lives,  but  has  exchang'd  the  hoarse 
Pausilipo  for  Tiber's  placid  course, 
Where,  idol  of  all  Rome,  she  now  in  chains 
Of  magick  song,  both  gods  and  men  detains. 

*  I  have  translated  only  two  of  the  three  pee  lical  compli- 
menls  addressed  to  Leonora,  as  they  appear  to  me  far  supe 
riour  to  what  I  have  omitted. 


(172) 

THE  COTTAGER  AND  HIS  LANDLORD 


A  PEASANT  to  his  lord  paid  yearly  court, 
Presenting  pippins,  of  so  rich  a  sort, 
That  he,  displeas'd  to  have  a  part  alone, 
Remov'd  the  tree,  that  all  might  be  his  own 
The  tree,  too  old  to  travel,  though  before 
So  fruitful,  wither'd,  and  would  yield  no  more. 
The  'squire,  perceiving  all  his  labour  void, 
Curs'd  his  own  pains,  so  foolishly  employ 'd, 
And  "  Oh,"  he  cried,  "  that  I  had  liv'd  content 
"With  tribute,  small  indeed,  but  kindly  me^i»l; ! 
My  av'rice  has  expensive  prov'd  to  me,      _^yr 
Has  cost  me  both  my  pippins  and  my  tree  *- 


CHRISTIANA,  QUEEN  OF  SWEDEN 


CROMWELL'S  PICTURE. 

Christiana,  maiden  of  heroick  mien ! 
Star  of  the  north  !  of  northern  stars  the  queen  ! 
Behold  what  wrinkles  I  have  earn'd,  and  how 
The  iron  casque  still  chafes  my  vet'ran  brow, 
While  following  fate's  dark  footsteps,  I  fulfil 
The  dictates  of  a  hardy  people's  will. 
But  soften'd,  in  thy  sight,  my  looks  appear^  > 
Not  to  all  Queens  or  Kings-  alike  severe      TT 
15* 


(174) 
^^  '* ' '  tosCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


ON  THE 

DEATH  OF  THE  VICE-CHANCELLOR, 

A  PHYSICIAN. 

Learn,  yo  nations  of  the  earth, 
The  condition  of  your  hirth, 
Now  be  taught  your  feeble  state  J 
Know  that  all  must  yield  to  fate! 

If  the  mournful  rover,  Death, 

Say  but  once — "  resign  your  breath  I** 

Vainly  of  escape  you  dream. 

You  must  pass  the  Stygian  stream. 

Could  the  stoutest  overcome         r^IJIT?  O 
Death's  assault,  and  bafHe  doom, 
Hercules  had  both  withstood 
Undiseas*d  by  Nessus'  blood. 

Ne'er  had  Hector  press'd  the  plain 

By  a  trick  of  Pallas  slain,  .MTii;uiO 

Nor  the  chief  to  Jove  allied 

By  Achilles*  phantom  died. 

Could  enchantments  life  prolong, 
Circe  sav'd  by  magick  song, 
Still  had  liv*d ;  an  equal  skill 
Had  preserv'd  Medea  still. 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON.       175 

Dwelt  in  herbs,  and  drugs,  a  pow'r 
To  avert  man's  dcstin'd  hour, 
Learn'd  Machoau  should  have  known 
Doubtless  to  avert  his  own. 

Chiron  had  surviv'd  the  smart 
Of  the  Hydra-tainted  dart, 
And  Jove's  bolt  had  been,  with  ease, 
Foil'd  by  Asclepiades. 

Thou  too,  sage  !  of  whom  forlorn 
Helicon  and  Cirrha  mourn, 
Still  hadst  fill'd  thy  princely  place 
Regent  of  the  gowned  race. 

Hadst  advanc'd  to  higher  fame 
Still,  thy  much-ennobled  name, 
Nor  in  Charon's  skiff  explor'd 
The  Tartarean  gulf  abhorr'd. 

But  resentful  Proserpine, 
Jealous  of  thy  skill  divine. 
Snapping  short  thy  vital  tliread. 
Thee  too  number'd  with  the  dead 

Wise  and  good  !  untroubled  be 
The  green  turf  that  covers  thee  ? 
Thence,  in  gay  profusion,  grow 
All  the  sweetest  flow'rs  that  blow 

Plato's  consort  bid  thee  rest ! 
^acus  pronounce  thee  blest : 
To  her  homo  thy  shade  consign  J 
Make  Elysium  ever  thine  ! 


rna 


(  J7G  ; 


ilT 


DEATH  OF  THE  BISHOP  OF  ELY, 

Written  in  the  Authors  17th  year. 

My  lids  with  grief  were  tumid  yet, 
And  still  my  sullied  cheek  was  wet 
With  briny  dews,  profusely  shed 
For  venerable  Winton  dead  : 
When  Fame,  whose  tales  of  saddest  sound) 
Alas  !  are  ever  truest  found, 
The  news  through  all  our  cities  spread 
Of  yet  another  mitred  head 
By  ruthless  fate  to  death  consign'd, 
Ely,  the  honour  of  his  kind  ! 

At  once,  a  storm  of  passion  heav'd 
My  boiling  bosom,  much  1  griev'd, 
But  more  I  rag'd  at  ev'ry  breath 
Devoting  Death  himself  to  death. 
With  less  revenge  did  Naso  teem, 
When  hated  Ibis  was  his  theme ; 
With  less,  Archiluchus,  denied 
The  lovely  Greek,  his  promis'd  bride. 

^       But  lo !  while  thus  I  execrate, 
/    Incens'd  the  minister  of  fate. 
Wondrous  accents,  soft,  yet  clear, 
Wafted  on  the  gale  I  hear. 

"  Ah,  much  deluded  !  lay  aside 
Thy  threats,  and  anger  misapplied! 
Art  not  afraid  with  sounds  like  these, 
T'  offend,  where  thou  canst  not  appease  i 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON.       177 
Death  is  not  (wherefore  dream'st  thou  thus  ?) 
The  son  of  Night  and  Erebus : 
Nor  was  of  fell  Eryimis  born 
On  ^ulfs,  whore  Ciiaos  rules  forlorn* 
But,  sent  from  God,  his  presence  leavet. 
To  gather  homo  his  ripen'd  sheaves, 
To  call  encumoer'd  souls  away 
From  fleshly  bonds  to  boundless  day, 
(As  when  the  winged  hours  excite, 
And  summon  forth  the  morning-light) 
And  each  to  convoy  to  her  place 
Before  th'  Eternal  Father's  face. 
But  net  the  wicked — them,  severe 
Yet  just,  from  all  their  pleasures  nere 
He  hurries  to  the  realms  below, 
Terrifick  realms  of  penal  wo  ! 
Myself  no  sooner  heard  his  call, 
Than  'scaping  through  my  prison-wall, 
I  bade  adieu  to  bolts  and  bars. 
And  soar'd,  with  angels,  to  the  stars, 
Like  him  of  old,  to  whom  'twas  giv*n 
To  mount,  on  fiery  wheels,  to  Heaven 
Bootes'  wagon,  slow  with  cold, 
Appall'd  me  not ;  nor  to  behold 
The  sword,  that  vast  Orion  draws, 
Or  ev'n  the  Scorpion's  horrid  claws, 
Beyond  the  sun's  bright  orb  I  fly,  * 

And,  far  beneath  my  feet,  descry 
Night's  dread  goddess,  seen  with  aw6y 
Whom  her  winged  dragons  draw. 
Thus,  ever  wond'ring  at  my  speed, 
Augmented  still  as  I  proceed, 
I  pass  the  planetary  sphere. 
The  Milky  Way — and  now  appear 
Heav'n's  crystal  battlements,  her  dooi 
Of  massy  pearl,  and  em'rald  floor. 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON 
But  here  I  cease.     For  never  can 
The  tongue  of  once  a  mortal  man 
In  suitable  description  trace 
The  pleasures  of  that  happy  place  ; 
Suffice  it,  that  those  joys  divine 
Are  all,  and  all  for  ever,  mine  !" 


NATURE  UNIMPAIRED  BY  TIME 

Ah,  how  the  human  mind  wearies  herself 
S\  ith  her  own  wand'rings,  and,  involv'd  in  gloom 
Impenetrable,  speculates  amiss  ! 
Measuring,  in  her  folly,  things  divine 
By  human ;  laws  inscrib'd  on  adamant 
By  laws  of  man's  device,  and  counsels  fix'd 
For  ever,  by  the  hours,  that  pass  and  die. 

How  ! — shall  the  face  of  nature  then  be  plough'd 
Into  deep  wrinkles,  and  shall  years  at  last 
On  the  great  Parent  fix  a  sterile  curse  ? 
Shall  even  she  confess  old  age,  and  halt, 
And,  palsy-smitten,  shake  her  starry  brows.' 
Shall  foul  Antiquity  with  rust  and  drought, 
And  Famine,  vex  the  radiant  worlds  above .'' 
Shall  Time's  unsatcd  maw  crave  and  ingulf 
The  very  Heav'ns,  that  regulate  his  flight  ? 
And  was  the  Sire  of  all  able  to  fence 
His  works,  and  to  uphold  the  circling  worlds. 
But,  through  improvident  and  heedless  haste, 
Let  slip  th'  occasion  ? — so  then — all  is  lost — 
And  in  some  future  evil  hour,  yon  arch 
Shall  crumble,  and  come  thund'ring  down,  the  poles 
Jar  in  collision,  the  Olympian  king 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON.     17 
Fall  with  his  throne,  and  Pallas,  holding  forth 
The  terrours  of  the  Gorgon  shield  in  vain, 
Shall  rush  to  the  abyss,  like  Vulcan  hurl'd 
Down  into  Lemnos,  through  the  gate  of  Heav'n 
Thou  also,  with  precipitated  wheels, 
Phoebus  !  thy  o^n  son's  fall  shalt  imitate, 
With  hideous  ruin  shalt  impress  the  deep 
Suddenly,  and  the  flood  shall  reek,  and  hiss 
At  the  extinction  of  the  lamp  of  day. 
Then  too  shall  Hsemus,  cloven  to  his  base, 
Be  shatter'd,  and  the  huge  Ceraunian  hills, 
Once  weapons  of  Tartarean  Dis,  immers'd 
In  Erebus,  shall  fill  himself  with  fear. 

No.     The  Almighty  Father  surer  laid 
His  deep  foundations,  and  providing  well 
For  the  event  of  all,  the  scales  of  Fate 
Suspended,  in  just  equipoise,  and  bade      • 
His  universal  works,  from  age  to  age, 
One  tenour  hold,  perpetual,  undisturb'd 

Hence  the  prime  mover  wheels  itself  about 
Continual,  day  by  day,  and  with  it  bears 
In  social  measure  swift  the  heav'ns  around. 
Not  tardier  now  is  Satan  than  of  old, 
Nor  radiant  less  the  burning  casque  of  Mars, 
Phoebus,  his  vigour  unimpair'd,  still  shows 
Th'  effulgence  of  his  youth,  nor  needs  the  god 
A  downward  course,  that  he  may  warm  the  vales; 
But,  ever  rich  in  influence,  runs  his  road, 
Sign  after  sign,  through  all  the  heav'nly  zone. 
Beautiful,  as  at  first,  ascends  the  star 
From  odorirrous  Ind,  whose  office  is 
To  gather  home  betimes  th'  ethereal  flock, 
To  pour  them  o'er  the  skies  again  at  eve, 
And  to  discriminate  the  night  and  day. 
Still  Cynthia's  changeful  horn  waxes,  and  wanes. 
Alternate,  and  with  arms  extended  stil] 


180       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 

She  welcomes  to  her  breast  her  brother's  beams, 

Nor  have  the  elements  deserted  yet 

Their  functions  ;  thunder,  with  as  loud  a  stroke 

As  erst,  smites  througli  the  rocks,  and  scatters  them 

The  east  still  howls,  still  the  relentless  north 

Invades  the  shuddering  Scythian,  still  he  breathes 

The  winter,  and  still  rolls  the  storms  along. 

The  king  of  ocean,  with  his  wonted  force, 

Beats  on  Pelorus,  o'er  the  deep  is  heard 

The  hoarse  alarm  of  Triton's  sounding  shell, 

Nor  swim  the  monsters  of  the  ^gean  sea 

In  shallows,  or  beneath  diminish'd  waves. 

Thou  too,  thy  ancient  vegetative  pow'r 

Enjoy 'st,  O  Earth  !  Narcissus  still  is  sweet, 

And  Phcebus !  still  thy  favourite,  and  still 

Thy  fav'rito  Cytherea !  both  retain 

Their  beauty,  nor  the  mountains,  ore-enrich'd 

For  punishment  of  man.  with  purer  gold 

Teem'd  ever,  or  with  brighter  gems  the  Deep 

Thus,  in  unbroken  series,  all  proceeds  ; 
And  shall,  till  wide  involving  either  pole. 
And  the  immensity  of  yonder  heav'n, 
The  final  flames  of  destiny  absorb 
ae  world  consum*d  in  one  enormous  pyre  I 


(  181) 


PLATONICK  IDEA, 


J^»  IT  WAS  UNDERSTOOD   BY  ARISTOTLE. 

Ye  sister  pow*rs,  who  o'er  the  sacred  groves 
Preside,  and  thou,  fair  mother  of  them  all, 
Mnemosyne !  and,  thou,  who  in  thy  grot 
Immense,  reclin'd  at  leisure,  hast  in  charge 
The  archives,  and  the  ord 'nances  of  Jove, 
And  dost  record  the  festivals  of  heav'n, 
Eternity  ! — ^inform  us  who  is  He, 
That  great  original  by  nature  chos'n 
To  be  the  archetype  of  human  kind. 
Unchangeable,  immortal,  with  the  poles 
Themselves  coeval,  one,  yet  ev'ry  where, 
An  image  of  the  god,  who  gave  him  being  ? 
Twin-brother  of  the  goddess  born  from  Jove. 
He  dwells  not  in  his  father's  mind,  but,  though 
Of  common  nature  with  ourselves,  exists 
Apart,  and  occupies  a  local  home. 
Whether,  companion  of  the  stars,  he  spend 
Eternal  ages,  roaming  at  his  will 
From  sphere  to  sphere  the  tenfold  heav'ns,  or  dwell 
On  the  moon's  side  that  nearest  neighbours  earth, 
Or  torpid  on  the  banks  of  Lethe  sit 
Among  the  multitude  of  souls  ordain'd 
To  flesh  and  blood,  or  whether  (as  may  chance) 
That  vast  and  giant  model  of  our  kind 
In  some  far  distant  region  of  this  globe 
Sequester'd  stalk,  with  lifted  head  on  high 
O'ertow'ring  Atlas  on  whose  shoulders  rest 
The  stars,  terrifick  even  to  tlie  gods. 
Vol .  TIF.  10 


182       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 
Never  the  Theban  seer,  whose  blindness  prov  d 
tlis  best  illumination,  him  beheJd 
In  secret  vision ;  never  him  the  son 
Of  Pleione,  amid  the  noiseless  night 
Descending,  to  the  prophet-choir  reveal'd; 
Him  never  knew  th'  Assyrian  priest  who  yet 
The  ancestry  of  Ninus  chronicles, 
And  Belus,  and  Osiris,  fur  renowned; 
Nor  even  thrice  great  Hermes,  although  skill'd 
So  deep  in  myst'ry,  to  the  worshipjiers 
Of  Isis  show'd  a  prodigy  like  him 

And  thou,  who  hast  immortaliz'd  the  Bhades 
Of  Academus,  if  the  schools  received 
This  monster  of  the  fancy  first  from  thee, 
Either  recall  at  once  the  banish'd  bards 
To  thy  republick,  or  thyself  evinc'd 
A  wilder  fabulist,  go  also  forth. 


TO  HIS  FATHER. 


Oh  that  Pieria's  spring  would  thro*  my  breast 

Pour  its  inspiring  influence,  and  rush 

No  rill,  but  rather  an  o'erflowing  flood  ! 

That,  for  my  venerable  Father's  sake. 

Ail  meaner  themes  renounc'd,  my  muse,  on  wingtr 

Of  duty  borne,  might  reach  a  loftier  strain. 

For  thee,  my  Father !  howsoe'er  it  please, 

She  frames  this  slender  work,  nor  know  I  aught, 

That  may  thy  gifts  more  suitably  requite ; 

Though  to  requite  them  suitably  would  ask 

Returns  much  nobler,  and  surpassing  far 

The  meagre  stores  of  verbal  gratitude 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MICTC^^J^' 
But,  such  as  I  possess,  I  send  thee  all, 
This  page  presents  thee  in  their  full  amount 
With  thy  son's  treasures,  and  the  sum  is  nought , 
Nought,  save  the  riches  that  from  airy  dream 
In  secret  grottos,  and  in  laurel  bow'rs, 
I  have,  by  golden  Cho's  gift,  acquir'd. 

Verse  is  a  work  divine  ;  despise  not  thou 
Verse  therefore,  which  evinces  (nothing  more) 
Man's  heavenly  source,  and  which,  retaining  still 
Some  scintillations  of  Promethean  fire, 
Bespeaks  him  animated  from  above. 
The  Gods  love  verse  ;  the  infernal  pow'rs  themselves 
Confess  the  influence  of  verse,  which  stirs 
The  lowest  deep,  and  binds  in  triple  chains 
Of  adamant  both  Plato  and  the  Shades. 
In  verse  the  Delphick  priestess,  and  the  pale 
Tremulous  Sybil,  make  the  future  known, 
And  he  who  sacrifices  on  the  shrine 
Hangs  verse,  both  when  he  smites  tlie  threat'ning  bull 
And  when  he  spreads  his  reeking  entrails  wide 
To  scrutinize  the  Fates  envclop'd  there. 
We  too,  ourselves,  what  time  we  seek  again 
Our  native  skies,  and  one  eternal  now 
Shall  be  the  onlv  measure  of  our  being, 
Crown'd  all  with  gold,  and  chanting  to  the  lyre 
Harmonious  verse,  shall  range  the  courts  above, 
And  make  the  starry  firmament  resound 
And,  even  now,  the  fiery  spirit  pure 
That  wheels  yon  circling  orbs,  directs,  himself. 
Their  mazy  dance  with  melody  of  verse 
Unutt'rable,  immortal,  hearing  which 
Huge  Ophinchus  holds  his  hiss  suppress'd, 
Orion  soften'd,  drops  his  ardent  blade. 
And  Atlas  stands  unconscious  of  his  load. 
Verse  grac'd  of  old  the  feasts  of  kings,  ere  yet 
Luxurious  dainties,  destin'd  to  the  gulf 
Immense  of  gluttony,  were  known,  and  ere 


184       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 

Lyaeus  delug'd  yet  the  temp'rate  board. 

Then  sat  the  bard  a  customary  guest 

To  share  the  banquet,  and,  his  length  of  locks 

With  beechen  honours  bound,  proposed  in  verse, 

The  characters  of  heroes,  and  their  deeds, 

To  imitation,  sang  of  Chaos  old, 

Of  nature's  birth,  of  gods  that  crept  in  search 

Of  acorns  fall'n,  and  of  the  thunderbolt 

Not  yet  produc'd  from  Etna's  fiery  cave. 

And  what  avails,  at  last,  tune  without  voice, 

Devoid  of  matter  ?  Such  may  suit  perhaps 

The  rural  dance,  but  such  was  ne'er  the  song 

Of  Orpheus,  whom  the  streams  stood  still  to  heaf 

And  the  oaks  follow'd.     Not  by  chords  alone 

Well  touch'd,  but  by  resistless  accents  more, 

To  sympathetick  tears  the  ghosts  themselves 

He  mov'd  ;  these  praises  to  his  verse  he  owes. 

Nor  thou  persist,  I  pray  thee,  still  to  slight 
The  sacred  Nine,  and  to  imagine  vain 
And  useless,  pow'rs  by  whom  inspir'd,  thyself 
Art  skilful  to  associate  verse  with  airs 
Harmonious,  and  to  give  the  human  voice 
A  thousand  modulations,  heir  by  right 
Indisputable  of  Arion's  fame. 
Now  say,  what  wonder  is  it,  if  a  son 
Of  thine  delight  in  verse,  if  so  conjoin'd 
In  close  affinity,  we  sympathize 
In  social  arts,  and  kindred  studies  sweet  ? 
Such  distribution  of  himself  to  us 
Was  Phoebus'  choice  :  thou  hast  thy  gift,  and  I 
Mine  also,  and  between  us  we  receive, 
Father  and  Son,  the  whole  inspiring  God. 

No  1  howsoe'er  the  semblance  thou  assume 
Of  hate,  thou  hatest  not  the  gentle  Muse, 
My  father  !  for  thou  never  jad'st  me  tread 
The  beatei  path,  and  broad,  that  lead'st  right  ou 


TRANSLATIONS   FROM  MILTON.       185 
To  opulence,  nor  didst  condemn  thy  son 
To  the  insipid  clamours  of  the  bar, 
To  laws  voluminous,  and  ill  observ'd  ; 
But,  wishing  to  enrich  me  more,  to  fill 
My  mind  with  treasure,  led'st  me  far  away 
From  city-din  to  deep  retreats,  to  banks 
And  streams  Aonian :  and,  with  free  consent, 
Didst  place  me  happy  at  Apollo's  side. 
I  speak  not  now,  on  more  important  themes 
Intent,  of  common  benefits,  and  such 
As  nature  bids,  but  of  thy  larger  gifts. 
My  Father  !  who,  when  I  had  open'd  once 
The  stores  of  Roman  rhetorick,  and  learn 'd 
The  fuU-ton'd  language  of  the  eloquent  Greeks, 
Whose  lofty  musick  grac*d  the  lips  of  Jove, 
Thyself  didst  counsel  me  to  add  the  flow'rs 
That  Gallia  boasts,  those  too,  with  which  the  smootl 
Italian  his  degen'rate  speech  adorns, 
That  witnessesr  his  mixture  with  the  Goth ; 
And  Palestine's  prophetick  songs  divine 
To  sum  the  whole,  whate'er  the  heav'n  contains, 
The  earth  beneath  it,  and  the  air  between, 
The  rivers  and  the  restless  deep  may  all 
Prove  intellectual  gain  to  me,  my  wish 
Concurring  with  thy  will ;  science  herself, 
All  cloud  remov'd,  inclines  her  beauteous  head, 
And  offers  me  the  lip,  if,  dull  of  heart, 
I  shrink  not,  and  decline  her  gracious  boon. 

Go  now,  and  gather  dross,  ye  sordid  minds, 
That  covet  it ;  what  could  my  Father  more  ? 
What  more  couid  Jove  himself,  unless  he  gave 
His  own  abode,  the  heav'n,  in  which  he  reigns  ? 
More  eligible  gifts  than  these  were  not 
Apoll:.'s  to  his  son,  had  they  been  safe. 
As  they  were  insecure,  who  made  the  boy 
The  world's  vice-luminary,  bade  him  rule 
The  radia  \x  chariot  of  the  day,  and  bind 
16* 


186       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 
To  his  young  brows  his  own  all-dazzling  wreath. 
I  therefore,  although  last  and  least,  my  place 
Among  the  learned  in  the  laurel  grove 
Will  hold,  and  where  the  conqu'ror's  ivy  twines, 
Henceforth  exempt  from  the  unletter'd  throng 
Profane,  nor  even  to  be  seen  by  such. 
Away,  then,  sleepless  Care,  Complaint,  away, 
And,  Envy,  with  thy  "  jealous  leer  malign  »"« 
Nor  let  the  monster  Calumny  shoot  forth 
Her  venom 'd  tongue  at  me      Detested  foes  ! 
Ye  all  are  impotent  against  my  peace, 
For  I  am  privileg'd,  and  bear  my  breast 
Safe,  and  too  high,  for  your  viperean  wound. 

But  thou  I  my  Father,  since  to  render  thanks 
Equivalent,  and  to  requite  by  deeds 
Thy  liberality,  exceeds  my  power, 
Suffice  it,  that  I  thus  record  thy  gifts, 
And  bear  them  treasur'd  in  a  grateful  mind ! 
Ye  too,  the  favourite  pastime  of  my  youth, 
My  voluntary  numbers,  if  ye  dare 
To  hope  longevity,  and  to  survive 
Tour  master's  funeral,  not  soon  absorbed 
In  the  oblivious  Letheean  gulf, 
Shall  to  fut.urity  perhaps  convey 
This  theme,  and  by  these  praises  of  my  sire 
Improve  the  Fathers  of  a  distant  age  ! 


(187) 

TO 

«*•'■■ 

«ALSILLUS,  A  ROMAN  POET 
MUCH  INDISPOSED 


The  original  is  written  in  a  measure  called  Scazorit 
which  signifies  limping  y  and  the  measure  is  so  deno- 
minated, because,  though  in  other  respects  lambick,  it 
terminates  with  a  Spondee,  and  has  consequently  a 
more  tardy  movement. 

The  reader  will  immediately  see  that  this  property 
of  the  Latin  verse  cannot  be  imitated  in  English 


My  halting  Muse,  that  dragg'st  by  choice  along 
Thy  slow,  slow  step,  in  melancholy  song. 
And  lik'st  that  pace,  expressive  of  thy  cares, 
Not  less  than  Diopeia's  sprightlier  airs, 
When,  in  the  dance,  she  beats,  with  measur'd  tread. 
Heav'n's  floor,  in  front  of  Juno's  golden  bed  ; 
Salute  Salsillus,  who  to  verse  divine 
Prefers,  with  partial  love,  such  lays  as  mine. 
Thus  writes  that  Milton  then,  who  wafted  o'er 
From  his  own  nest,  on  Albion's  stormy  shore, 
Where  Eurus,  fiercest  of  the  JEolian  band. 
Sweeps,  with  ungovern'd  rage,  the  blasted  land, 
Of  late  to  more  serene  Ausonia  came 
To  view  her  cities  of  illustrious  name, 


188       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 

To  prove  himself  a  witness  of  the  truth, 

How  wise  her  elders,  and  how  learn'd  her  youth. 

Much  good,  Salsillus  !  and  a  body  free 

From  all  disease,  that  Milton  asks  for  thee, 

Who  now  endur'st  the  languor,  and  the  pains, 

That  bile  inflicts,  diffused  through  all  thy  veins, 

Relentless  malady  !  not  mov'd  to  spare 

By  thy  sweet  Roman  voice,  and  Lesbian  air  ! 

Health,  Hebe's  sister  sent  us  from  the  skies, 
And  thou,  Apollo,  whom  all  sickness  flies, 
Pythius,  or  Paean,  or  what  name  divine 
Soe'er  thou  choose,  haste,  heal  a  priest  of  thine! 
Ye  groves  of  Faunus,  and  ye  hills,  that  meh 
With  vinous  dews,  where  meek  Evander  dwelt ! 
If  aught  salubrious  in  vour  confines  grow, 
Strive  which  shall  soonest  heal  your  poet's  wo, 
That,  render'd  to  the  Muse  he  loves,  again 
He  may  enchant  the  meadows  with  his  strain. 
Numa,  reclin'd  in  everlasting  ease. 
Amid  the  shade  of  dark  embow'ring  trees, 
Viewing  with  eyes  of  unabated  fire 
His  lov'd  ^geria,  shaJl  that  strain  admire  : 
So  sooth'd,  the  tumid  Tiber  shall  revere 
The  tombs  of  kings,  nor  desolate  the  year. 
Shall  curb  his  waters  with  a  friendly  rein. 
And  guide  them  harmlesp,  till  they  meet  the  main. 


(  189) 

TO 

GIOVANNI  BATTISTA  MANSO, 

MARQUIS  OF  YILLA. 


MILTON'S  ACCOUNT  OF  MANSO. 

Giovanni  Battista  Manso,  Marquis  of  Villa,  is  an 
Italian  nobleman  of  the  highest  estimation  among  his 
countrymen,  for  genius,  literature,  and  military  ac- 
complishments. To  him  Torquato  Tasso  addressed 
his  Dialogues  on  Friendship,  for  he  was  much  the 
friend  of  Tasso,  who  has  also  celebrated  him  among 
the  other  Princes  of  his  country,  in  his  poem,  entitled, 
Gerusalemme  Conquistata,  book  xx. 

Fra  cavalier  magnanimi,  e  cortesi, 

Risplende  il  Manso. 
During  the  Author's  stay  at  Naples,  he  received  at 
the  hands  of  the  Marquis  a  thousand  kind  offices  and 
civilities,  and,  desirous  not  to  appear  ungrateful, 
sent  him  this  poem  a  short  time  before  his  departure 
from  that  city. 


These  verses  also  to  thy  praise  the  Nine, 
Oh  Manso  !  happy  in  that  theme,  design. 
For,  Gallus  and  Maecenas  gone,  they  see 
None  such  besides,  or  whom  they  love  as  thee  ; 
And,  if  my  verse  may  give  the  meed  of  fame, 
Thine  too  shall  prove  an  everlasting  name. 
Already  such,  it  shines  in  Tasso's  page 
(For  thou  wast  Tasso's  friend)  from  age  to  age, 


1<)0       TRAxNSLATlONS  FROM  MILTON- 

And,  next,  the  Muse  consign'd  (not  unaware 

How  high  the  cliarge)  Marino  to  thy  care, 

Who,  singing  to  the  nymphs,  Adonis'  praise, 

Boasts  thee  the  patron  of  his  copious  lays. 

To  thee  alone  the  poet  would  entrust 

His  latest  vows,  to  thee  alone  his  dust; 

And  thou  with  punctual  piety  hast  paid, 

In  labour'd  brass,  thy  tribute  to  his  shade. 

Nor  this  contented  thee— but  lest  the  grave 

Should   aught   absorb  of  theirs   which  thou  conldst 

save, 
All  future  ages  thou  hast  deign'd  to  teach 
The  life,  lot,  genius,  character  of  each. 
Eloquent  as  the  Carian  sage,  who  true 
To  his  great  theme,  the  life  of  Homer  drew. 

I,  therefore,  though  a  stranger  youth,  who  come 
Chill'd  by  rude  blasts,  that  freeze  my  northern  home, 
Thee  dear  to  Clio,  confident  proclaim. 
And  thine,  for  Phoebus's  sake,  a  deathless  name. 
Nor  thou,  so  kind,  wilt  view  with  scornful  eye 
A  muse  scarce  reared  beneath  our  sullen  sky, 
Who  fears  not,  indiscreet  as  she  is  young. 
To  seek  in  Latium  hearers  of  her  song. 
We  too,  where  Thames  with  his  unsullied  waves 
The  tresses  of  the  blue-hair'd  Ocean  laves, 
Hear  oft  by  night,  or,  slumb'ring,  seem  to  hear, 
O'er  his  wide  stream,  the  swan's  voice  warbling  clear. 
And  we  could  boast  a  Titynis  of  yore, 
Who  trod,  a  welcome  guest,  your  happy  shore. 

Yes d^-eary  as  we  own  our  Northern  clime, 

E'en  we  iz  Phoebus  raise  the  polish'd  rhyme, 
We  too  serve  Phcebus ;  Phoebus  has  receiv'd 
(If  legends  old  may  claim  to  be  believ'd) 
No  sordid  gifts  from  us,  the  golden  ear, 
The  burnish'd  apple,  ruddiest  of  the  year, 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON.       191 
The  fragrant  crocus,  and  to  grace  his  fane, 
Fair  damsels  chosen  from  the  Druid  train  ; 
Druids,  our  native  bards  in  ancient  time, 
Who  gods  and  heroes  prais'd  in  hallow 'd  rhyme  ! 
Hence,  often  as  the  maids  of  Greece  surround 
Apollo's  shrine  with  hymns  of  festive  sound, 
They  name  the  virgins  who  arriv'd  of  yore, 
With  British  ofTrings,  on  the  Delian  shore, 
Loxo,  from  giant  Corineus  sprung, 
Upis,  on  whose  blest  lips  the  future  hung, 
And  Hecaerge,  with  the  golden  hair, 
All  decked  with  Fictish  hues,  and  all  with  bosoms  bare 

Thou,  therefore,  happy  sage,  whatever  clime 
Shall  ring  with  Tasso's  praise  in  after-time, 
Or  with  Marino's,  shalt  be  known  their  friend, 
And  with  an  equal  flight  to  fame  ascend. 
The  world  shall  hear  how  Phoebus,  and  the  Nino, 
Were  inmates  once,  and  willing  guests  of  thine. 
Yet  Phoebus,  when  of  old  constrain'd  to  roam 
The  earth,  an  exile  from  his  heavenly  home, 
Enter'd,  no  willing  guest,  Admetus'  door, 
Though  Hercules  had  ventur'd  there  before. 
But  gentle  Chiron's  cave  was  near,  a  scene 
Of  rural  peace,  cloth'd  with  perpetual  green. 
And  thither,  oft  as  respite  he  requir'd 
From  rustick  clamours  loud,  the  god  retir'd. 
There,  many  a  time,  on  Peneus'  bank  reclin'd 
At  some  oak's  root,  with  ivy  thick  entwin'd, 
Won  by  his  hospitable  friend's  desire, 
He  sooth'd  his  pains  of  exile  with  the  lyre. 
Then  shook  the  hills,  then  trembled  Peneus'  shore 
Nor  CEta  felt  his  load  of  forests  more  ; 
The  Upland  elms  descended  to  the  plain, 
And  soften'd  lynxes  wonder'd  at  the  strain. 

Well  may  we  think,  O  dear  to  all  above  ! 
Thy  birth  distinguish'd  by  the  smile  of  Jove  ; 


J 


192       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 

And  that  Apollo  shed  his  kindliest  pow'r, 

And  Maia's  son,  on  that  propitious  hour, 

Since  only  minds  so  born  can  comprehend 

A  poet's  worth,  or  yield  that  worth  a  friend. 

Hence,  on  thy  yet  unfaded  cheek  appears 

The  ling'ring  freshness  of  thy  greener  years ; 

Hence,  in  thy  front  and  features,  we  admire 

Nature  unwither'd,  and  a  mind  entire. 

Oh  might  so  true  a  ftiend  to  me  belong. 

So  skill'd  to  grace  the  votaries  of  song. 

Should  I  recall  hereafter  into  rhyme 

The  kings  and  heroes  of  my  native  clime, 

Arthur  the  chief,  who  even  now  prepares, 

In  subterraneous  being,  future  wars. 

With  all  his  martial  knights,  to  be  restored, 

Each  to  his  seat,  around  the  fed'ral  boar4, 

And  Oh,  if  spirit  fail  me  not,  disperse 

Our  Saxon  plund'rers,  in  triumphant  verse  I 

Then,  after  all,  when,  with  the  past  content, 

A  life  I  finish,  not  in  silence  spent, 

Should  he,  kind  mourner,  o  er  my  death-bed  bend, 

I  shall  but  need  to  say — "  Be  yet  my  friend  1" 

He,  too,  perhaps,  shall  bid  the  marble  breathe 

To  honour  me,  and  with  the  graceful  wreath. 

Or  of  Parnassus,  or  the  Paphian  isle. 

Shall  bind  my  brows — but  I  shall  rest  the  while 

Then  also,  if  the  fruits  of  faith  endure. 

And  virtue's  promis'd  recompense  be  sure. 

Born  to  those  seats,  to  which  the  blest  aspire 

By  purity  of  soul,  and  virtuous  fire. 

These  rites,  as  Fate  permits,  I  shall  survey 

With  eyes  illumin'd  by  celestial  day, 

And,  every  cloud  from  my  pure  spirit  driven, 

Joy  in  the  bright  beatitude  of  Heaven  ' 


(193) 


DEATH  OF  DAMON. 


TBE    ARGUMENT. 

Thjrsis  and  Damon,  shepherds  and  neighbours,  had 
always  pursued  the  same  studies,  and  had,  from  their 
earliest  days,  been  united  in  the  closest  friendship. 
Thyrsis,  while  travelling  for  improvement,  received 
intelligence  of  the  death  of  Damon,  and,  after  a  time, 
returning  and  finding  it  true,  deplores  himself,  and  his 
solitary  condition,  in  this  poem. 

By  Damon  is  to  be  understood  Charles  Diodati, 
connected  with  the  Italian  city  of  Lucca  by  his  father's 
side,  in  other  respects  an  Englishman ;  a  youth  of  un 
common  genius,  erudition,  and  virtue. 


Ye  Nymphs  of  Himera,  (for  ye  have  shed, 
Erewhile  for  Daphnis,  and  for  Hylas  dead, 
And  over  Bion's  long-lamented  bier, 
Tlie  fruitless  meed  of  many  a  sacred  tear,) 
Now  through  the  villas  lav'd  by  Thames,  rehearse 
The  woes  of  Thyrsis  in  Sicilian  verso. 
What  sighs  he  heav'd,  and  how  with  groans  profound 
He  made  the  woods  and  hollow  rocks  resound. 
Young  Damon  dead ;  nor  even  ceas'd  to  pour 
His  lonely  sorrows  at  the  midnight  hour. 

Vol.  hi.  17 


104       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 

The  green  wheat  twice  had  nodded  in  the  ear, 
And  golden  harvest  twice  enriched  the  year, 
Since  Damon's  lips  had  gasp'd  for  vital  air 
The  last,  last  time,  nor  Thyrsis  yet  was  there  ; 
For  he,  enamour'd  of  the  Muse,  remain'd 
In  Tuscan  Fiorenza  long  detain'd, 
But,  stor'd  at  length  with  all  he  wish'd  to  learn, 
For  his  flock's  sake  now  hasted  to  return, 
And  when  the  shepherd  had  resum'd  his  seat 
At  the  elm's  root,  within  his  old  retreat, 
Then  'twas  his  lot,  then,  all  his  loss  to  know, 
And,  from  his  burthen'd  heart,  he  vented  thus  his  wo. 

*^  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs ;  my  thoughts  are 
due 
To  other  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Alas,  what  deities  shall  I  suppose 
In  heaven,  or  earth,  concern'd  for  human  woes, 
Since,  O  ray  Damon !  their  severe  decree 
So  soon  condemns  me  to  regret  of  thee  ! 
Depart'st  thou  thus,  thy  virtues  unrepaid 
With  fame  and  honour,  like  a  vulgar  shade  ? 
Let  him  forbid  it,  whose  bright  rod  controls, 
And  sep'rates  sordid  from  illustrious  souls, 
Drive  far  the  rabble,  and  to  thee  assign 
A  happier  lot,  with  spirits  worthy  thine  ! 

*•  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs  ;  my  thoughts  are 
due 
To  other  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Whate'er  befall,  unless  by  cruel  chance. 
The  wolf  first  give  me  a  forbidding  glance. 
Thou  shalt  not  moulder  undeplor'd,  but  long 
Thy  praise  shall  dwell  on  every  shepherd's  tongue 
To  Daphnis  first  they  shall  delight  to  pay. 
And,  after  him,  to  thee  the  votive  lay, 
Wiiile  Pales  shall  the  flocks  and  pastures  love, 
Or  Faunus  to  frequent  the  field  or  grove, 


TRANSI.ATIONS  FROM  MILTON.       195 
At  least,  if  ancient  piety  and  truth, 
With  all  the  learned  labours  of  thy  youth, 
May  serve  ihee  aught,  or  to  have  left  behind 
A  sorrowing  friend,  and  of  the  tuneful  kind. 

"  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs ;  my  thoughts  are 
due 
To  other  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Yes,  Damon  !  such  thy  sure  reward  shall  be  , 
But  ah,  what  doom  awaits  unhappy  me  ? 
Who,  now,  my  pains  and  perils  shall  divide, 
As  thou  wast  wont,  for  ever  at  my  side, 
Both  when  the  rugged  frost  annoy'd  our  feet, 
And  when  the  herbage  all  was  parch'd  with  heat ; 
Whether  the  grim  wolf's  ravage  to  prevent, 
Or  the  huge  lion's,  arm'd  with  darts  we  went  ? 
Whose  converse,  now,  shall  calm  my  stormy  day, 
With  charming  song,  who  now  beguile  my  way  ? 

"  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs ;  my  thoughts  are 
due 
To  other  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
In  whom  shall  I  confide  ?  Whose  counsel  find 
A  balmy  med'cine  for  my  troubled  mind  .'' 
Or  whose  discourse,  with  innocent  delight. 
Shall  fill  me  now,  and  cheat  the  wint'ry  night, 
While  hisses  on  my  hearth  the  pulpy  pear. 
And  black'ning  chestnuts  start  and  crackle  there, 
While  storms  abroad  the  dreary  meadows  whelm, 
And  the  wind  thunders  thro'  the  neighb'ring  elm. 

"  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs  ;  my  thoughts  art 
due 
To  other  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Or  who,  when  summer  suns  their  summit  reach, 
And  Pan  sleeps  hidden  by  the  shelt'ring  beech. 
When  shepherds  disappear,  nymphs  seek  the  sedge. 
And  the  stretch'd  rustick  snores  beneath  the  hedge, 


190       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 
Who  then  shall  render  me  thy  pleasant  vein 
Of  Attick  wit,  thy  jests,  thy  smiles  again  r 

"  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs  ;  my  thoughts  are 
due 
To  other  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Where  glens  and  vales  are  thickest  overgrown 
With  tangled  boughs,  I  wander  now  alone, 
Till  night  descend,  while  blust'ring  wind  and  show>f 
Beat  on  my  temples  through  the  shatter'd  bow'r. 

"  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs ;  my  thoughts  are 
due 
To  other  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Alas  !  what  rampant  weeds  now  shame  my  fields,    // 
And  what  a  mildew'd  crop  the  furrow  yields  ? 
My  rambling  vines,  unwcdded  to  the  trees, 
Bear  shrivell'd  grapes,  my  myrtles  fail  to  please. 
Nor  please  me  more  my  flocks  j  they,  slighted  turn 
Their  unavailing  looks  on  me,  and  mourn. 

"  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs ;  my  thoughts  are 
duo 
To  other  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you 
.^gon  invites  me  to  the  hazel^rove, 
Amyntas  on  the  river's  bank  to  rove, 
And  young  Alphesiboeus  to  a  seat 
Where  branching  elms  exclude  the  mid-day  heat. 
*  Here  fountains  spring — here  mossy  hillocks  rise  ; 
Here  Zephyr  whispers,  and  the  stream  replies.' — 
Thus  each  persuades,  but,  deaf  to  every  call, 
I  gain  the  thickets,  and  escape  them  all. 

"  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs  ;  my  thoughts  are 
due 
To  other  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Then  Mopsus  said,  (the  same  who  reads  so  well 
The  voice  of  birds,  and  what  the  stars  foretell, 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON.       197 

For  he  by  chance  had  noticed  my  return,) 

*  What  means  thy  sullen  mood,  this  deep  concern  ? 

Ah  Thyrsis  !  thou  art  either  craz'd  with  love, 

Or  some  sinister  influence  from  above ; 

Dull  Saturn's  influence  oft  the  shepherds  rue  ; 

His  leaden  shaft  oblique  has  pierc'd  thee  through  ' 

"  Go,  go,  my  lambs,  unpastur'd  as  ye  are  ; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  care. 
Tho  nymphs  amaz'd,  my  melancholy  see, 
And, '  Thyrsis !'  cry — *  what  will  become  of  thee  ! 
What  wouldst  thou,  Thyrsis  ?  such  should  not  appear 
The  brow  of  youth  stern,  gloomy,  and  severe  ; 
Brisk  youth  should  laugh,  and  love — ah,  shun  the  fate 
Of  those,  twice  wretched  mopes  !  who  love  too  late  !'* 

"  Go,  go,  my  lambs,  unpastur'd  as  ye  are  ; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  care, 
^gle  with  Hyas  came,  to  sooth  my  pain. 
And  Baucis'  daughter,  Dryope,  the  vain, 
Fair  Dryope,  for  voice  and  finger  neat 
Known  far  and  near,  and  for  her  self-conceit ; 
Chloris  too  came,  whose  cottage  on  the  lands 
That  skirt  the  Idumanian  current,  stands ; 
But  all  in  vain  they  came,  and  but  to  see 
Kind  words,  and  comfortable,  lost  on  me. 

**  Go,  go,  my  lambs,  unpastur'd  as  ye  are ; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  care. 
Ah  blest  indifF'rence  of  the  playful  herd, 
None  by  his  fellow  chosen,  or  preferr'd ! 
No  bonds  of  amity  the  flocks  enthral. 
But  each  associates,  and  is  pleas'd  with  all ; 
So  graze  the  dappled  deer  in  num'rous  droves, 
And  all  his  kind  alike  the  zebra  loves ; 
The  same  law  governs,  where  the  billows  roar, 
And  Proteus'  shoals  o'erspread  the  desert  shore  j 
17* 


198       TRANSLATIOxXS  FROM  JMILTON 

The  sparrow,  meanest  of  the  feather'd  race, 

His  fit  companion  finds  in  every  place, 

With  whom  he  picks  the  grain  that  suits  him  best. 

Flirts  here  and  there,  and  late  returns  to  rest, 

And  whom  if  chance  the  falcon  make  his  prey, 

Or  hedger  with  his  well  aim'd  arrow  slay, 

For  no  such  loss  the  gay  survivor  grieves  : 

New  love  he  seeks,  and  new  delight  receives, 

We  only,  an  obdurate  kind,  rejoice, 

Scorning  all  others,  in  a  single  choice. 

We  scarce  in  thousands  meet  one  kindred  mind, 

And  if  the  long-sought  good  at  last  we  find, 

When  least  we  fear  it.  Death  our  treasure  steals, 

And  gives  our  heart  a  wound  that  nothing  heals. 

"  Go,  go,  my  lambs,  unpastur'd  as  ye  are ; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  care. 
Ah,  what  delusion  lur'd  me  from  my  flocks, 
To  traverse  Alpine  snows,  and  rugged  rocks  ' 
What  need  so  great  had  I  to  visit  Rome, 
Now  sunk  in  ruins,  and  herself  a  tomb  .'* 
Or,  had  she  flourish'd  still,  as  when  of  old. 
For  her  sake  Tityrus  forsook  his  fold, 
What  need  so  great  had  1 1'  incur  a  pause 
Of  thy  sweet  intercourse  for  such  a  eausCi 
For  such  a  cause  to  place  the  roaring  sea, 
Rocks,  mountains,  woods,  between  my  friend  and  me  J 
Else,  had  I  grasp'd  thy  feeble  hand,  compos'd 
Thy  decent  limbs,  thy  drooping  eye-lids  clos'd. 
And,  at  the  last,  had  said — *  Farewell — ascend — 
Nor  even  in  the  skies  forget  thy  friend  !' 

"  Go,  go,  my  lambs,  untended  homeward  fare  j 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  care. 
Although  well-pleas'd,  ye  tuneful  Tuscan  swains  ! 
My  mind  the  mem'ry  of  your  worth  retains. 
Yet  not  your  worth  can  teach  me  less  to  mourn 
My  Dairion  lost.     He  too  was  Tuscan  born 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON.        199 
Born  in  your  Lucca,  city  of  renown  ! 
And  wit  possess'd,  and  genius,  like  your  own. 
Oh  how  elate  was  I,  when  stretch'd  beside 
The  murm'ring  course  of  Arno's  breezy  tide, 
Beneath  the  poplar  grove  I  pass'd  my  hours, 
Now  cropping  myrtles,  and  now  vernal  flow'rs, 
And  hearing,  as  I  lay  at  ease  along, 
Your  swains  contending  for  the  prize  of  scng  ! 
I  also  dar'd  attempt  (and,  as  it  seems. 
Not  much  displeas'd  attempting)  various  themes, 
For  even  I  can  presents  boast  from  you, 
The  shepherd's  pipe,  and  ozier  basket  too. 
And  Dati,  and  Francini,  both  have  made 
My  name  familiar  to  the  boechen  shade. 
And  they  are  learn'd,  and  each  in  ev'ry  place 
Renown 'd  for  song,  and  both  of  Lydian  race 

"  Go,  go,  my  lambs,  untended  homeward  fare  ; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  care. 
While  bright  the  dewy  grass  with  moon-beams  shQuei 
And  I  stood  hurdling  in  ray  kids  alone, 
How  often  have  I  said  (but  thou  had?t  found 
Ere  then  thy  dark  cold  lodgment  under  ground 
Now  Damon  sings,  or  springes  sets  for  hares 
Or  wicker-work  for  various  use  prepares  ! 
How  oft,  indulging  fancy,  have  I  plann'd 
New  scenes  of  pleasure,  that  I  hop'd  at  hand, 
Call'd  thee  abroad  as  I  was  wont,  and  cried — 
*  What  hoa  !  my  friend — come  lay  thy  task  aside, 
Haste,  let  us  forth  together,  and  beguile 
Tlie  heat,  beneath  yon  whisp'ring  shades  awhile 
Or  on  the  margin  stray  of  Colne's  clear  flood, 
Or  where  Cassibelan's  grey  turrets  stood  ! 
There  thou  shalt  cull  me  simples,  and  shalt  teach 
Thy  friend  the  name,  and  healing  pow'rs  of  each. 
From  the  tall  blue-bell  to  the  dwarfish  weed. 
What  the  dry  land,  and  what  the  marshes  breed, 


200       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 

For  all  their  kinds  alike  to  thee  are  known, 

And  the  whole  art  of  Galen  is  thy  own.' 

Ah,  perish  Galen's  art,  and  wither'd  bo 

The  useless  herbs,  that  gave  not  health  to  thee  ! 

Twelve  evenings  since,  as  in  poetick  dream 

1  meditating  sat  some  statelier  theme, 

The  reeds  no  sooner  touch'd  my  lip,  though  new, 

And  unassay'd  before,  than  wide  they  flew. 

Bursting  their  waxen  bands,  nor  could  sustain 

The  deep-ion'd  rausick  of  the  solemn  strain  ; 

And  I  am  vain  perhaps,  but  I  will  tell 

How  proud  a  theme  I  chose — ^ye  groves,  farewell 

"  Go,  go,  my  lambs,  untended  homeward  fare ; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  care. 
Of  Brutus,  Dardan  chief,  my  song  shall  be, 
How  with  his  barks  he  plough'd  the  British  sea, 
First  from  Rutupia's  tow'ring  headland  seen, 
And  of  his  consort's  reign,  fair  Imogen ; 
Of  Brennus,  and  Belinus,  brothers  bold, 
And  of  Arviragus,  and  how  of  old 
Our  hardy  sires,  th'  Armorican  controU'd, 
And  of  the  wife  of  Gorlois,  who,  surpris'd 
By  Uther,  in  her  husband's  form  disguis'd, 
(Such  was  the  force  of  Merlin's  art)  became 
Pregnant  with  Arthur  of  heroick  fame. 
These  themes  I  now  revolve — and  Oh — if  Fate 
Proportion  to  these  themes  my  lengthened  date. 
Adieu,  my  sliepherd's  reed — yon  pine-tree  bough 
Shall  be  thy  future  home,  there  dangle  thou 
Forgotten  and  diisus'd,  unless  ere  long 
Thou  change  thy  Latian  for  a  British  song ; 
A  British  ? — even  so — the  pow'rs  of  man 
Are  bounded  ;  little  is  the  most  he  can : 
And  it  shall  well  suffice  mc,  and  shall  be 
Fame,  and  proud  recompense  enough  for  me. 
If  Usa,  golden-hair'd,  my  verse  may  learu, 
H  Alain.,  bending  o'er  his  crystal  urn. 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON.       201 

Swift-whirling  Abra,  Trent's  o'ershadow'd  stream, 
Thames,  lovelier  far  than  all  in  my  esteem, 
Tamar's  ore-tinctur'd  flood,  and,  after  these, 
The  wave-worn  shores  of  utmost  Orcades. 

"  Go,  go,  my  lambs,  untcnded  homeward  fare ; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  care. 
All  this  I  kept  m  leaves  of  laurel-rind 
Enfolded  safe,  and  for  thy  view  designed. 
This — and  a  gift  from  Manso's  hand  beside, 
(Manso,  not  least  his  native  city's  pride,) 
Two  cups,  that  radiant  as  their  giver  shone, 
Adorn'd  by  sculpture  with  a  double  zone. 
The  spring  was  graven  there  ;  here  slowly  wind 
The  Red-sea  shores,  with  groves  of  spices  lin'd ; 
Her  plumes  of  various  hues  amid  the  boughs 
The  sacred,  solitary  Phoenix  shows  ; 
And  watchful  of  the  dawn,  reverts  her  head, 
To  see  Aurora  leave  her  wat'ry  bed. 
— In  other  part,  th'  expansive  vault  above, 
And  there  too,  even  there,  the  God  of  Love 
With  quiver  arm'd  ho  mounts,  his  torch  displays 
A  vivid  light,  his  gem-tipt  arrows  blaze, 
Around  his  bright  a^d  fiery  eyes  he  rolls. 
Nor  aims  at  vulgar  minds,  or  little  souls, 
Nor  deigns  one  look  below,  but  aiming  high, 
Sends  every  arrow  to  the  lofty  sky ; 
Hence  forms  divine,  and  minds  immortal,  learn 
The  pow'r  of  Cupid,  and  enamour *d  burn. 

"  Thou  also,  Damon,  (neither  need  I  fear 
That  hope  delusive,)  thou  art  also  there  ; 
For  whither  should  simplicity  like  thine 
Retire,  where  else  such  spotless  virtue  shine . 
Thou  dwell'st  not  (thought  profane)  in  shades  below, 
Nor  tears  suit  thee — cease  then  my  tears  to  flow. 
Away  with  grief:  on  Damon  ill-bestow'd  ! 
Who,  pure  himself,  has  found  a  pure  abode. 


202       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 
Has  pass'd  the  show'ry  arch,  henceforth  reside* 
With  saints  and  heroes,  and  from  flowing  tides 
Quaffs  copious  immortality,  and  joy, 
With  hallow'd  lips ! — Oh  !  blest  without  alloy, 
And  now  enrich'd,  with  all  that  faith  can  claim 
Look  down,  entreated  by  whatever  name, 
If  Damon  please  thee  most,  (that  rural  sound 
Shall  oft  with  echoes  fill  the  groves  around,) 
Or  if  Diodatus,  by  which  alone 
In  those  ethereal  mansions  thou  art  known. 
Thy  blush  was  maiden,  and  thy  youth  the  taste 
Of  wedded  bliss  knew  never,  pure  and  chaste, 
The  honours,  therefore,  by  divine  decree 
The  lot  of  virgin  worth  are  given  to  thee  ; 
Thy  brows  encircled  with  a  radiant  band. 
And  the  groen  palm-branch  waving  in  thy  hand^ 
Thou  in  immortal  nuptials  shalt  rejoice, 
And  join  with  seraphs  thy  according  voice, 
Where  rapture  reigns,  and  the  ecstatick  lyre 
Guides  the  blest  orgies  of  the  blazing  choir. *• 


/! 

(203) 

AN    ODE 

ADDRESSED  TO 

ME.  JOHN  ROUSE,  LIBRARIAN 

OP  THE  UNIVERSITY  OP  OXFORD.   ,:iW 

On  a  lost  Volume  of  my  Poems ,  which  he  desired  me 

to  replace,  that  he  might  add  them  to  my  other 

Works  deposited  in  the  Library. 


This  Ode  is  rendered  without  rhyme,  that  it  might 
more  adequately  represent  the  original,  which,  as  Milton 
himself  informs  us,  is  of  no  certain  measure.  It  may 
possibly  for  this  reason  disappoint  the  reader,  though  it 
cost  the  writer  more  labor  than  the  translation  of  any 
other  piece  in  the  whole  collection. 


My  two-fold  book  !  single  in  show 

But  double  in  contents  ; 
Neat,  but  not  curiously  adorned. 

Which,  in  his  early  youth, 
A  poet  gave,  no  lofty  one  in  truth. 
Although  an  earnest  wooer  of  the  Muse — 
Say  while  in  cool  Ausonian  shades. 


204       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 

Or  British  wilds  he  roam'd, 

Striking  by  turns  his  native  lyre, 

By  turns  the  Daunian  lute, 

And  stepp'd  almost  in  air. — 

A5TISTB0PHE. 

Say,  little  book,  what  furtive  hand 
Thee  from  thy  fellow-books  convey'd, 
What  time,  at  the  repeated  suit 

Of  my  most  learned  friend, 
I  sent  thee  forth  an  honour'd  traveller, 
From  our  great  city  to  the  source  of  Thames, 

Cserulean  sire ! 
Where  rise  the  fountains,  and  the  rapture  ring 
Of  the  Aonian  choir, 
Durable  as  yonder  spheres, 
And  through  the  endless  lapse  of  ye&s 
Secure  to  be  admir'd  ? 


STROPHE  II. 

Now  what  God,  or  Demigod, 
For  Britain's  ancient  Genius  mov*d, 

(If  our  afflicted  land 
Have  expiated  at  length  the  guilty  sloth 
Of  her  degen'rate  sons) 
Shall  terminate  our  impious  feuds, 
And  discipline,  with  hallow'd  voice  recall? 
Recall  the  Muses  too, 
Driv'n  from  their  ancient  seats 
In  Albion,  and  well  nigh  from  Albion's  shorOy 
And  with  keen  Phoebean  shafts.. 
Piercing  th'  unseemly  birds, 
Whose  talons  menace  us. 
Shall  drive  the  Harpy  race  from  Helicon  afiir. 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON.      205 

ANTISTROPHE. 

But  thou,  my  book,  though  thou  hast  stray'd 
Whether  by  treach'ry  lost, 
Or  mdolent  neglect,  thy  bearer's  fault, 

From  all  thy  kindred  books,  /»' 

To  some  dark  ceJ,  or  cave  forlorn,  iT 

Where  thou  endur'st,  perhaps, 
The  chafing  of  some  hard  untutor'd  hand. 

Be  comforted — 
For  lo  !  again  the  splendid  hope  appears 

That  thou  may'st  yet  escape 
The  gulfs  of  Lethe,  and  on  oary  wings 
Mount  to  the  everlasting  courts  of  Jove ! 

STROPHE  III. 

Since  Rouse  desires  thee,  and  complains 
That,  though  by  promise  his, 
Thou  yet  appear'st  not  in  thy  place 
Among  the  literary  noble  stores 

Giv'n  to  his  care. 
But,  absent,  leav'st  his  numbers  incomplete, 
He,  therefore,  guardian  vigilant 

Of  that  unperishing  wealth. 
Calls  thee  to  the  interiour  shrine,  his  charge, 
Where  he  intends  a  richer  treasure  far 
Than  Ion  kept  (Ion,  Erectheus'  son 
Illustrious,  of  the  fair  Creusa  born) 
In  the  resplendent  temple  of  his  God, 
Tripods  of  gold  and  Delphick  gifts  divine. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Haste,  then,  to  the  pleasant  groves, 
The  Muses'  fav'rite  haunt ; 
Resume  tny  station  in  Apollo's  dome 
Vol.  III.  18 


206       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MLLTON 

Dearer  to  him 
Than  Delos,  or  the  fork'd  Parnassian  liill  ! 

Exulting  go, 
Since  now  a  splendid  lot  is  also  thine, 
And  thou  art  sought  by  my  propitious  friend ; 

For  there  thou  shalt  be  read  ■     -  -  • 

With  authors  of  exalted  note,  ^ 

The  ancient  glorious  lights  of  Greece  a;rid  RohSk 


Ye  then,  my  works,  no  longer  vain, 
And  worthless  deem'd  by  me  ! 
Whatever  this  sterile  genius  has  produc'd, 
Expe«t,  at  last,  the  rage  of  envy  spent, 
An  unmolested  happy  home. 
Gift  of  kind  Hermes,  and  ray  watchful  friend^ 
Where  never  flippant  tongue  profane 
Shall  entrance  find, 
And  whence  the  coarse  unletter'd  mu/titude 
Shall  babble  far  remote. 
Perhaps  some  future  distant  age, 
Less  ting'd  with  prejudice,  and  better  t aught j, 
Shall  furnish  minds  of  pow'r 
To  judge  more  equally. 
Then,  malice  silenced  in  the  tomb, 
Cooler  heads  and  sounder  hearts. 
Thanks  to  Rouse,  if  aught  of  praise 
I  merit,  shall  with  candour  weigh  fiie  claim 


--^51 


(  m ) 


TRANSLATIONS 


THE  ITALIAN  POEMS. 


SONNET. 

Fair  Lady,  whose  harmonious  name  the  Rhine, 
Through  all  his  grassy  vale,  delights  to  hear, 
Base  were  indeed  the  wretch,  who  could  forbear 

To  love  a  spirit  elegant  as  thine. 

That  manifests  a  sweetness  all  divine,  ') 

Nor  knows  a  thousand  winning  acts  to  spare,       ' 
And  graces,  which  Love's  bow  and  arrows  are, 

Temp'ring  thy  virtues  to  a  softer  shine. 

When  gracefully  thou  speak'st  or  singest  gay, 
Such  strains,  as  might  the  senseless  forest  move, 

Ah  then — turn  each  his  eyes,  and  ears,  away, 
Who  feels  himself  unworthy  of  thy  love! 

Grace  can  alone  preserve  him,  ere  the  dart 

Of  fond  desire  yet  reach  his  inmost  heart. 

SONETTO. 

Donna  leggiadra,  il  cui  bel  nome  honora 
L'herbosa  val  di  Rheno,  e  il  nobil  varco, 
Bene  e  colui  d'ogni  valore  scarce, 
Qual  tuo  spirto  gentil  non  innamora; 

Che  dolcemente  mostra  si  di  fuora 
])e  sui  atti  soavi  giamraai  parco, 


208       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON 
E  i  don,  die  son  d'amor  saetle  ed  arco, 
La  onde  lalta  tua  virtu  s'infiora. 

Quando  tu  vaga  parli,  o  lieta  canti, 
Che  mover  possa  duro  alpestre  legno, 
Guardi  ciascun  a  gli  occhi,  ed  a  gli  orecclii 

L'entrata,  chi  di  tre  si  truova  indegno ; 
Grazia  sola  di  su  gli  vaglia,  innanti 
Che'l  disio  amoroso  al  cuor  s'invecchi. 


SONNET. 

As  on  a  hill-top  rude,  when  closing  day 

Imbrowns  the  scene,  some  past'ral  maiden  fair 
Waters  a  lovely  foreign  plant  with  care, 
Borne  from  its  native  genial  airs  away, 
That  scarcely  can  its  tender  bud  display  : 

So,  on  my  tongue  these  accents,  new,  and  rare, 
Are  flow'rs  exotick,  which  Love  waters  there, 
While  thus,  O  sweetly  scornful !  I  essay 

Thy  praise,  in  verse  to  British  ears  unknown, 
And  Thames  exchange  for  Arno's  fair  domain ; 
So  love  iias  wilPd,  and  ofttimes  Love  has  shown, 
That  what  he  wills,  he  never  wills  in  vain. 
Oh  that  this  hard  and  sterile  breast  might  be. 
To  Him,  who  plants  from  Heav'n,  a  soil  as  free ! 


SONETTO. 

QuAL  in  colle  aspro,  al  imbrunir  di  sera, 
L'avvezza  giovinetta  pastorella 
Va  bagnando  I'herbetta  strana  e  Delia, 
Che  mal  si  spande  a  disusata  spera, 
Fuor  di  sua  natia  alma  primavera ; 
Cosi  Amor  meco  insu  la  lingua  snella 
Desta  il  fior  novo  di  strania  favella, 
Montro  io  di  te  vezzosamente  altera, 


i 
f 


TRANSLATJONS  FROM  MILTON        209 

Canto,  dal  mio  buon  popol  non  inteso.  :/<i'^ 

E'l  bel  Tamigi  cangio  col  bel  Arno,  'i 

Amor  lo  volse,  ed  io  a  1'  altrui  peso, 

Seppi,  ch'Amor  cosa  mai  volse  indarno, 

Deh  !  fos'  il  mio  cuor  lento,  e'l  duro  seno,     ) 
A  chi  pianta  dal  ciel,  si  buon  terrene  !  "•» 

CANZONE.  ,• 

They  mock  my  toil — the  nymphs  and  am'rous  swamt  i 

And  whence  this  fond  attempt  to  write,  they  cry, 

Love-songs  in  language  that  thou  little  know'st  ? 

How  dar'st  thou  risk  to  sing  these  foreign  strains  ^ 

Say  truly.     Fmd'st  not  oft  thy  purpose  cross'd, 

And  that  thy  fairest  flowers,  here  fade  and  die  ^ 

Then  witli  pretence  of  admiration  high — 

Thee  other  shores  expect,  and  other  tides, 

Rivers,  on  whose  grassy  sides 

Her  deathless  laurel  leaf,  with  which  to  bind 

Thy  flowing  locks,  already  Fame  provides  j 

Why  then  this  burthen,  better  far  declin'd  ? 

Speak,  Muse  !  for  me. — The  fair  one  said,  who  guidei 

My  willing  heart,  and  all  my  fancy's  flights, 

"  This  is  the  language,  in  which  Love  delights  " 


CANZONE. 

RiDONSi  donne,  e  giovani  amorosi 
M'  ftccostandosi  attorno,  e  perche  scrivi, 
Perche  tu  scrivi  in  lingua  ignota  e  strana 
Verseggiando  d'  amor,  e  come  t'  osi  ? 
Dinne,  se  la  tua  speme  sia  mai  vana, 
E  de  pensieri  lo  miglior  t'  arrivi ; 
Cosi  mi  van  burlando,  altri  rivi 
Altri  lidi  t'aspettan,  ed  altre  onde 
Nelle  cui  verdi  sponde 
18* 


210       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 
Spuntati  ad  hor,  a  la  tua  chioma 
L'  immortal  guiderdon  d'  eterne  frondi 
Perche  alle  spalle  tue  soverchia  soma  ? 

Canzon,  dirotti,  e  tu  per  me  rispondi ' 
Dice  mia  Donna,  e'l  suo  dir  e  il  mio  cuore 
''  Questa  e  lingua,  di  cui  si  vanta  Amorc 


SONNET 
TO  CHARLES  DIODATI. 

Charles — and  I  say  it  wond'ring — thou  mast  know 
That  I,  who  once  assum'd  a  scornful  air, 
And  scofTd  at  love,  am  fall'n  in  his  snare, 
(Full  many  an  upright  man  has  fallen  so) 
Yet  think  me  not  thus  dazzled  by  the  flow 
Of  golden  locks,  or  damask  cheek  :  more  rare 
The  heart-felt  beauties  of  my  foreign  fair ; 
A  mien  majestick,  with  dark  brows  that  show 
The  tranquil  lustre  of  a  lofty  mind  ; 
Words  exquisite,  of  idioms  more  than  one. 
And  song,  whose  fascinating  pow'r  might  bind. 
And  from  her  sphere  draw  down  the  lab'ring  Moon 
With  such  fire  darting  eyes,  that  should  I  fill 
My  ears  with  wax,  she  would  enchant  me  still. 

SONETTO. 

DioDAFi,  e  tel  diro  con  maraviglia, 

Quel  ritroso  io,  ch'amor  spreggiar  solea, 

£  de  suoi  lacci  spesso  mi  ridea, 

Gia  caddi,  ov'huom  dabben  talhor  s'impiglia 

Ne  treccie  d'  oro,  ne  guancia  vermiglia 
M'  abbaglian  si,  ma  sotto  nuova  idea 
Pellegrina  bellezza,  che'l  cuor  bea, 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON.       iUl 

Portamenti  alti  honesti,  e  nelle  ciglia 

Quel  sereno  fulgor  d'amabil  nero, 

Parole  adorne,  di  lingua  piu  d'una, 
E'l  cantar,  che  di  mezzo  rhemispero 

Traviar  ben  puo  la  faticosa  Luna, 

E  degli  occhi  suoi  awenta  si  gran  fuoco, 
Che  rincerar  gli  orecchi  mi  fia  poco. 

SONNET. 

Lady  !  It  cannot  be,  but  that  thine  eyes 

Must  be  my  sRin,  such  radiance  they  display, 
And  strike  me  e'en  as  Phoebus  hira,  whose  way 
Through  horrid  Lybia's  sandy  desert  lies. 
Meantime,  on  that  side  steamy  vapours  rise 

Where  most  I  suffer.     Of  what  kind  are  they, 
New  as  to  me  they  are,  I  cannot  say, 
But  deem  them,  in  the  lover's  language — sighs. 
Some,  though  with  pain,  my  bosom  closo  conceals, 
Which,  if  in  part  escaping  thence,  they  tend 
To  soften  thine,  thy  coldness  soon  congeals. 
While  others  to  my  tearful  eyes  ascend, 
Whence  my  sad  nights  in  show'rs  are  ever  drowvi  *!, 
Till  my  Aurora  comes,  her  brow  with  roses  bouinJ. 

SONETTO. 

Pjer  certo  i  bei  vostr*occhi.  Donna  mia, 

Esser  non  puo,  che  non  sian  lo  mio  sole, 
Si  mi  percuoton  forte,  come  ei  suole 
Per  I'arene  di  Libia,  chi  s'invia : 

Mentre  un  caldo  vapor  (ne  senti  pria) 

Da  quel  lato  si  spinge,  ove  mi  duole, 
Che  forse  amanti  nelle  lor  parole, 
Chiaman  sospir ;  io  non  so  che  si  sia  : 

Paite  rinchiusa,  e  turbida  si  cela 

Scosso  mi  Jl  petto,  e  poi  n'uscendo  poor 
Quivi  d*  attorno  o  s'agghiaccia,  o  s'ingi       j 


212       TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MILTON. 
Ma  quanto  a  gli  occhi  giiinge  a  trovar  loco 
Tutte  le  notti  a  me  suol  far  piovose 
Finche  mia  Alba  rivien^  colraa  di  rose. 

SONNET. 

Enamour'd,  artless,  young,  on  foreign  ground, 
Uncertain  whither  from  myself  to  fly, 
To  thee,  dear  lady,  with  an  hurnbla  sigh 
Let  me  devote  my  heart,  which  I  have  found 
By  certain  proofs,  not  few,  intrepid,  sound, 

Good,  and  addicted  to  conceptions  high. 
When  tempests  shake  the  world,  and  fire  the  skyj 
It  rests  in  adamant  self-wrapt  around, 
As  safe  from  envy,  and  from  outrage  rude, 
From  hopes  and  fears,  that  vulgar  minds  abuse, 
As  fond  of  genius,  and  fix'd  fortitude, 
Of  the  resounding  lyre,  and  every  Muse. 
Weak  you  will  find  it  in  one  only  part, 
Now  pierc'd  by  Love's  immedicable  dart. 

SONETTO. 

GiovANE  piano,  e  semplicetto  amante, 

Poi  che  fuggir  me  stesso  in  dubbio  sone, 

Madonna,  a  voi  del  mio  cuor  Thumil  dono 

Faro  divoto  ;  io  certo  a  prove  tante 
L'hebbi  fedele,  intrepido,  costante 

Do  pensieri  leggiadro,  accorto,  e  buono  ; 

Quando  rugge  il  gran  mondo,  e  scocca  il  tuonn|', 

S'arma  di  se,  e  d'  ihtero  diamante, 
Tanto  del  forse,  e  a'  invidia  sicuro, 

Di  timori,  e  speranze  al  popol  use 

Qaanto  cringegno,  e  d'alto  valor  vago, 
E  di  cetra  aonora,  e  delle  Muse  : 

Sr>1  troverete  in  tal  parte  men  duro, 

OvQ  Amor  mise  I'insanabil  ago. 


(213) 


EPITAPH 


MRS.  M   HIGGINS,  OF  WESTON. 

[1791.] 

Laurels  may  flourish  round  the  conqu'ror's  tomb 
But  happiest  they,  who  win  the  world  to  come : 
Believers  have  a  silent  field  to  fight, 
And  their  exploits  are  veil'd  fi-om  human  sight, 
They  in  some  nook,  where  little  known  they  dwell, 
Kneel,  pray  in  faith,  and  rout  the  hosts  of  Hell ; 
Eternal  triumphs  crown  their  toils  divine, 
And  all  those  triumphs,  Mary,  now  are  thine 


THE  RETIRED  CAT. 

[1791.] 

A  Poet's  Cat,  sedate  and  grave 
As  poet  well  could  wish  to  have, 
Was  much  addicted  to  inquire 
For  nooks  to  which  she  might  retire, 
And  where,  secure  as  mouse  in  chink, 
She  might  repose,  or  sit  and  think. 
I  know  not  where  she  caught  the  trick- 
Nature  perhape  herself  had  cast  her 
In  such  a  mould  philosophiqup:, 
Or  else  she  learn'd  it  of  her  Master 


14  THE  RETIRED  CAT. 

Sometimes  ascending,  debonair, 
An  apple-tree,  or  loftj'  pear, 
Lodg'd  with  convenience  in  the  fork, 
She  watch'd  the  gard'ner  at  his  work  , 
Sometimes  her  ease  and  solace  sought 
In  an  old  empty  wat'ring  pot, 
There,  wanting  nothing,  save  a  fan, 
To  seem  some  nymph  in  her  sedan 
Apparel'd  in  exactest  sort, 
And  ready  to  be  borne  to  court. 

But  love  of  change  it  seems  has  place 
Not  only  in  our  wiser  race  ; 
Cats  also  feel,  as  well  as  we. 
That  passion's  force,  and  so  did  she. 
Her  climbing,  she  began  to  find, 
Exposed  her  too  much  to  the  wind, 
And  the  old  utensil  of  tin 
Was  cold  and  comfortless  within : 
She,  therefore,  wish'd  instead  of  those 
Some  place  of  more  serene  repose. 
Where  neither  cold  might  come,  nor  ail 
Too  rudely  wanton  with  her  hair, 
And  sought  it  in  the  likeliest  mode 
Within  her  master's  snug  abode 

A  draw'r,  it  chanc'd  at  bottom  lin'd 

With  linen  of  the  softest  kind, 

With  such  as  merchants  introduce 

From  India,  for  the  ladies'  use, 

A  draw'r  impending  o'er  the  rest, 

Half  open  in  the  topmost  chest, 

Of  depth  enough,  and  none  to  spare, 

Invited  her  to  slumber  there  ; 

Puss  with  delight,  beyond  expression, 

Survey'd  the  scene,  and  took  possession  : 

Recumbent  at  her  ease,  ere  long. 

And  lull'd  by  her  own  humdrum  song, 


THE  RETIRED  CAT.  215 

She  left  the  cares  of  life  behind, 
And  slept  as  she  would  sleep  her  last. 
When  in  came,  housewifely  inclin'd, 
The  chambermaid,  and  shut  it  fast, 
By  no  malignity  iinpell'd. 
But  all  unconscious  whom  it  held. 

Awaken'd  by  the  shock,  (cried  pass) 
"  Was  ever  cat  attended  thus ! 
The  open  draw  was  left  1  see, 
Merely  to  prove  a  nest  for  me, 
For  soon  as  I  was  well  compos'd, 
Then  came  the  maid,  and  it  was  clos'd. 
How  smooth  these  'kerchiefs  and  how  swoot ' 
Oh  what  a  delicate  retreat ! 
I  will  resign  myself  to  rest 
Till  Sol  declining  in  the  west, 
Shall  call  to  supper,  when  no  doubt, 
Susan  will  come  and  let  me  out." 

The  evening  came,  the  sun  descended. 
And  Puss  remain'd  still  unattended. 
The  night  roll'd  tardily  away, 
(With  her  indeed  'twas  never  day,) 
The  sprightly  morn  her  course  renew'd, 
The  evening  gray  again  ensu'd. 
And  Puss  came  into  mind  no  more, 
Than  if  entomb 'd  the  day  before. 
With  hunger  pinch'd,  and  pinch'd  for  room, 
She  now  presag'd  approaching  doom. 
Nor  slept  a  single  wink,  or  purr'd, 
Conscious  of  jeopardy  incurred  ! 

That  night,  by  chance,  the  poet  watching^ 
Heard  an  inexplicable  scratching  ; 
His  noble  heart  went  pit-a-pat. 
And  to  himself  he  said "  what's  that  ?" 


216  THE  RETIRED  CAT. 

He  drew  the  curtain  at  his  side, 
And  forth  he  peep'd,  but  nothing  spied. 
Yet,  by  his  ear  directed,  guess'd 
Something  imprison'd  in  the  chest, 
And,  doubtful  what,  with  prudent  care 
Resolv'd  it  should  continue  there. 
At  length  a  voice  which  well  he  knew, 
A  long  and  melancholy  mew, 
Saluting  his  poetick  ears, 
Consol'd  him,  and  dispell'd  his  fears ; 
He  left  his  bed,  he  trod  the  floor, 
He  'gan  in  haste  the  draw'rs  t'  explore, 
The  lowest  first,  and  without  stop 
The  rest  in  order  to  the  top. 
For  'tis  a  truth  well  known  to  most, 
That  whatsoever  thing  is  lost, 
We  seek  it,  ere  it  come  to  light, 
In  ev'ry  cranny  but  the  right. 
Forth  skipp'd  the  cat,  not  now  replete 
As  erst  with  airy  self-conceit. 
Nor  in  her  own  fond  apprehension 
A  theme  for  all  the  world's  attention. 
But  modest,  sober,  cur'd  of  all 
Her  notions  hyperbolical, 
And  wishing  for  a  place  of  rest. 
Any  thing  rather  than  a  chest. 
Then  stepp'd  the  poet  into  bed 
With  this  reflection  in  his  head. 

MORAL. 

Beware  of  too  sublime  a  sense 
Of  your  own  worth  and  consequence. 
The  man  who  dreams  himself  so  great) 
And  his  importance  of  such  weight. 
That  all  around  in  all  that's  done 
Must  move  and  act  for  Him  alone. 
We  learn  in  school  of  tribulation 
The  folly  of  his  expectation. 


(217) 


YARDLEY  OAK. 

[It91.] 

Survivor  sole,  and  hardly  such,  of  all, 
That  once  liv'd  here,  thy  brethren,  at  my  birth, 
(Since  which  I  number  threescore  winters  past,) 
A  shatter'd  vct'ran,  hollow-trunk'd  perhaps, 
As  now,  and  with  excoriate  forks  deform, 
Relicks  of  Ages  !  Ceuld  a  mind,  imbued 
With  truth  from  Heaven,  created  thing  adore, 
I  might  with  rev'rence  ki?eel,  and  worship  thee. 

It  seems  idolatry  with  some  excuse. 
When  our  forefather  Druids  in  their  oaks 
Imagin'd  sanctity.     The  conscience,  yet 
Unpurified  by  an  authentick  act 
Of  amnesty,  the  meed  of  blood  divine, 
Lov'd  not  the  light,  but,  gloomy,  into  gloom 
Of  thickest  shades,  like  Adam  after  taste 
Of  fruit  proscrib'd,  as  to  a  refuge,  fled. 

Thou  wast  a  bauble  once  ;  a  cup  and  ball. 
Which  babes  might  play  with ;  and  the  thievish  jay. 
Seeking  her  food,  with  ease  might  have  purloin'd 
The  Auburn  nut  that  held  thee,  swallowing  down 
Thy  yet  close-folded  latitude  of  boughs. 
And  all  thine  embryo  vastness  at  a  gulp. 
But  Fate  thy  growth  decreed ;  autumnal  rains 
Beneath  thy  parent  tree  mellow'd  the  soil 
Design'd  thy  cradle  j  and  a  skipping  deer, 
With  pointed  hoof  dibbling  the  glebe,  prcpar'd 
The  soft  receptacle,  in  which,  secure, 
Thy  rudiments  should  sleep  the  winter  through 

V-.L.  HI.  Ui 


218  YARDLEY  (^AK. 

So  Fancy  dreams.     Disprove  it,  if  ye  can, 
Ye  reas'ners  broad  awake,  whose  busy  search 
Of  argument,  employ'd  too  oft  amiss. 
Sifts  half  the  pleasures  of  short  life  away  ! 

Thou  fell'st  mature  ;  and  in  the  loamy  clod 
Swelling  with  vegetative  force  instinct 
Didst  t)urst  thine  eggy  as  theirs  the  fabled  Twins, 
Now  stars  ;  two  lobes,  protruding,  pair'd  exact ; 
A  leaf  succeeded,  and  another  leaf, 
And,  all  the  elements  thy  puny  growth 
Fost'ring  propitious,  thou  becam'st  a  twig. 

Who  liv'd  when  thou  wast  such  ?  Oh,  couldst  thou 
speak, 
As  in  Dodona  once  thy  kindred  trees 
Oracular,  I  would  not  curious,  ask 
The  future,  best  unknown,  but  at  thy  mouth 
Inquisitive,  the  less  ambiguous  past. 

By  thee  I  might  correct,  erroneous  oft, 
The  clock  of  history,  facts  and  events 
Timing  more  punctual,  unrecorded  facts 

Recov'ring,  and  misstated  setting  right 

Desp'rate  attempt  till  trees  shall  speak  again  ! 

Time  made  thee  what  thou  wast,  king  of  the  woods 
And  Time  hath  made  thee  what  thou  art — a  cave 
For  owls  to  roost  in.     Once  thy  spreading  boughs 
O'erhung  the  champaign  ;  and  the  numerous  flocks 
That  graz'd  it,  stood  beneath  that  ample  cope 
Uncrowded,  yet  safe-sheltor'd  from  the  storm. 
No  flock  frequents  thee  now.     Thou  hast  outliv'd 
Thy  popularity,  and  art  become 
(Unless  verse  rescue  thee  awhile)  a  thing 
Forgotten,  as  the  foliage  of  thy  youth. 


YARDLEY  OAK.  219 

While  thus  through  all  the  stages  thou  liast  push'd 
Of  treeship — first  a  seedUng,  hid  in  grass  ; 
Then  twig ;  then  sapling  ;  and,  as  cent'ry  roU'd 
Slow  after  century,  a  giant-bulk 
Of  girth  enormous,  with  moss  cushion'd  root 
Upheav'd  above  the  soil,  and  sides  emboss'd 
With  prominent  wens  globose — till  at  the  last 
The  rottenness,  which  time  is  charg'd  to  inflict 
On  other  mighty  ones,  found  also  thee. 

What  exhibitions  various  hath  the  world 
Witness'd  of  mutability  l:i  all 
That  we  account  most  durable  below  ! 
Change  is  the  diet  on  which  all  subsist. 
Created  changeable,  and  change  at  last 
Destroys  them.     Skies  uncertain  now  the  heat 
Transmitting  cloudless,  and  the  solar  beam 
Now  quenching  in  a  boundless  sea  of  clouds — 
Calm  and  alternate  storm,  moisture  and  drought, 
Invigorate  by  turns  the  springs  o£%^ 
In  all  that  live,  plant,  animal,  and  man. 
And  in  conclusion  mar  thera^  Nature's  threads, 
Fine  passing  thought,  e'en  in  her  coarsest  works, 
Delight  in  agitation,  jret-«^tain 
The  force,  that  agitates,  no^'unimpair'd  ; 
But,  worn  by  frequent  impulse,  to  the  cause 
Of  their  best  tone  their  dissolution  owe. 

Thought  cannot  spend  itself,  comparing  still 
The  great  and  little  of  thy  lot,  thy  growth 
From  almost  nullity  into  a  state 
Of  matchless  grandeur,  and  declension  thence. 
Slow,  into  such  magnificent  decay. 
Time  was,  when,  settling  on  thy  leaf,  a  fly- 
Could  shake  thee  to  the  root — and  time  has  been 
When  tempests  could  not.     At  thy  firmest  age 
Thou  hadst  within  thy  bole  solid  contents. 
That  might  have  ribb'd  the  sides  and  plank'd  the  deck 


220  YARDLEY  OAK. 

Of  some  flagg'd  admiral ;  and  tortuous  arms, 
The  shipwright's  darling  treasure,  didst  present 
To  the  four-quarter'd  winds,  robust  and  bold,     • 
"Warp'd  into  tough  knee-timber,*  many  a  load  ! 
But  the  axe  spared  thee.     In  those  thriftier  days 
Oaks  fell  not,  hewn  b  /  thousands,  to  supply 
The  bottomless  demands  of  contest,  wag'd 
For  senatorial  honours.     Thus  to  Time 
,The  task  was  left  to  whittle  thee  away 
With  his  sly  scythe,  whose  ever  nibbling  edge, 
Noiseless,  an  atom,  and  an  atom  more. 
Disjoining  from  the  rest,  has,  unobserv'd, 
Achiev'd  a  labour,  which  had  far  and  wide, 
By  man  perform'd,  made  all  the  forest  ring. 

Embowell'd  now,  and  of  thy  ancient  self 
Possessing  nought  but  the  scoop'd  rind,  that  seems 
An  huge  throat,  calling  to  the  clouds  for  drink, 
Which  it  would  give  in  rivulets  to  thy  root. 
Thou  temptest  none,  but  rather  much  forbidd'st 
The  feller's  toil,  which  thou  couldst  ill  requite. 
Yet  is  thy  root  sincere,  sound  as  the  rock, 
A  quarry  of  stout  spurs,  and  knotted  fangs, 
Which,  crook'd  into  a  thousand  whimsies,  clasp 
The  stubborn  soil,  and  hold  thee  still  erect. 

So  stands  a  kingdom,  whose  foundation  yet 
Fails  not,  in  virtue  and  in  wisdom  laid, 
Though  all  the  superstructure,  by  the  tooth 
Pulveriz'd  of  venality,  a  shell 
Stands  now,  and  semblance  only  of  itself! 

Thine  arms  have  left  thee.    Winds  have  rent  them 
off 
Long  since,  and  roveib  of  the  forest  wild 

*  Knee-Timber  is  found  in  the  crooked  arms  of  oak,  which 
oy  reason  of  their  dLstortion,  are  easily  adjusted  to  tlie  angle 
formed  where  the  deck  and  the  ship's  sides  meet. 


YARDLEY  OAK.  221 

With  bow  and  shaft,  have  burnt  them.    Some  have 

left 
A  splinter'd  stump,  bleach'd  to  a  snowy  white  ; 
And  some,  memorial  none  where  once  they  grew. 
Yet  life  still  lingers  in  thee,  and  puts  forth 
Proof  not  contemptible  of  what  she  can. 
Even  where  death  predominates.     The  spring 
Finds  thee  not  less  alive  to  her  sweet  force 
Than  yonder  upstarts  of  the  neighb'ring  wood, 
So  much  thy  juniors,  who  their  birth  receiv'd 
Half  a  millennium  since  the  date  of  thine. 
But  since,  although  well  qualified  by  age 
To  teach,  no  spirit  dwells  in  thee,  nor  voice 
May  be  expected  from  thee,  seated  here 
On  thy  distorted  root,  with  hearers  none 
Or  prompter,  save  the  scene,  I  will  perform 
Myself  the  oracle,  and  will  discourse 
In  my  own  ear  such  matter  as  I  may. 

One  man  alone,  the  father  of  us  all, 
Drew  not  his  life  from  woman ;  never  gaz'd, 
With  mute  unconsciousness  of  what  he  saw, 
On  all  around  him  ;  learn'd  not  by  degrees. 
Nor  ow'd  articulation  to  his  ear  : 
But,  moulded  by  his  Maker  into  man 
At  once,  upstood  intelligent,  survey'd 
All  creatures,  with  precision  understood 
Their  purport,  uses,  properties,  assigned 
To  eacn  his  name  significant,  and,  fill'd 
"With  love  and  wisdom,  rendered  back  to  Heav'n 
In  praise  harmonious  the  first  air  he  drew. 
He  was  excus'd  the  penalties  of  dull 
Minority.     No  tutor  charg'd  his  hand 
With  the  thought-tracing  quill,  or  task'd  his  mind 
With  problems.     History,  not  wanted  yet, 
Lean'd  on  her  elbow,  watching  Time,  whose  course, 
Eventful,  should  supply  her  wit\  d  theme  y—^— 
t9  * 


(  222) 


THE  NIGHTINGALE, 

# 
^HICH  THE  AUTHOR  HEARD  SING  ON  NEW-YEAr's  DAY. 

[1792.] 

Whence  is  it,  that  amaz'd  I  hear 

From  yonder  wither 'd  spray, 
This  foremost  morn  of  all  the  year, 

The  melody  of  May  ? 

And  why,  since  thousands  would  be  proud 

Of  such  a  favour  shown, 
Am  I  selected  from  the  crowd, 

To  witness  it  alone  ? 

Sing'st  thou,  sweet  Philomel,  to  me, 

For  that  I  also  long 
Ha  70  practis*d  in  the  groves  like  thee, 

Though  not  like  thee  in  song  ? 

Or  sing'st  thou  rather  under  force 

Of  some  divine  command, 
Commission'd  to  presage  a  course 

Of  happier  days  at  hand  .•* 

Thrice  welcome,  then !  for  many  a  long 

And  joyless  year  have  I, 
Ao  thou  to-day,  put  forth  my  song 

Beneath  a  wintry  sky. 

Bnt  thee  no  wintry  skies  can  harm, 

Who  only  need'st  to  sing. 
To  make  ev'n  January  charm, 

And  ev'ry  season  Spring. 


(  223  ) 


LINES, 

Written  for  insertion,  in  a  collection  of  hand-ioritingi 

and  signatures  made  ly  Miss  Patty,  sister  of 

Hannah  More* 

[March  6, 1792.] 

In  vain  to  live  from  age  to  age 

"While  modern  bards  endeavour, 

I  write  my  name  in  Patty's  page, 
And  gain  my  point  for  ever. 

W.  COWPER 


EPITAPH 


A  free  hut  tame  Redbreast,  a  favourite  of 
Miss  Sally  Hurdis, 

[March,  1792.] 

These  are  not  dew-drops,  these  are  tears, 

And  tears  by  Sally  shed 
For  absent  Robin,  who  she  fears. 

With  too  much  cause,  is  deMib  ^^ijmjoo 

One  mom  he  came  not  to  her  hand  .'f 
As  he  was  wont  to  come,  rf^ 

And  on  her  finger  perch'd,  to  stand  i 

Picking  his  breakfast  crumb.  .i;-/I 


224  SONNET. 

Alarm'd,  she  call'd  him,  and  perplex'd 

She  sought  him  but  in  vain, 
That  day  he  came  not,  nor  the  next, 
Nor  ever  came  again. 

She,  therefore,  raised  him  here  a  tomb, 
Though  where  he  fell,  or  how. 

None  knows,  so  secret  was  his  doom, 
Nor  where  he  moulders  now. 

Had  half  a  score  of  coxcombs  died 

In  social  Robin's  stead, 
Poor  Sally's  tears  had  soon  been  dried| 

Or  haply  never  shed. 

But  Bob  was  neither  rudely  bold. 

Nor  spiritlessly  tame  ', 
Nor  was,  like  theirs,  liis  bosom  cold, 

But  always  in  a  flame. 


\o  »^t«o«»\»  ,'fiONNET 

TO 

WILLIAM  WILBERFORCE,  ESa 

l^pHl  16, 1792.] 

Thy  country,  Wilberforce,  with  just  disdain, 
Hears  thee  by  cruel  men  and  impious  call'd 
Fanatick,  for  thy  zeal  to  loose  the  enthrall'd 

From  exile,  publick  sale,  and  slav'ry's  chain. 

Friend  of  the  poor,  the  wrong'd,  the  fetter  gall'd, 

Fear  not  lest  labour  such  as  thine  be  vain. 


EPIGRAM.  225 

Thou  hast  achiev'd  a  part ;  hast  gain*d  the  ear 
Of  Britain's  senate  to  thy  glorious  cause  ; 
Hope  smiles,  joy  springs,  and  tho'  cold  caution  pause 

P,  nd  weave  delay,  th«  better  hour  is  near 

That  shall  remunerate  thy  toils  severe 
By  peace  for  Afric,  fenc'd  with  British  laws. 

Enjoy  what  thou  hast  won,  esteem  and  love 
From  all  the  just  on  earth,  and  all  tho  blest  above. 


EPIGRAM. 

{JPrintcd  in  the  J^orthampton  Mercury.) 

To  purify  their  wine  some  people  bleed 
A  lamb  into  the  barrel,  and  succeed  ; 
No  nostrum,  planters  say,  is  half  so  good 
To  make  fine  sugar,  as  a  negro's  blood. 
Now  lambs  and  negroes  both  are  harmless  things, 
And  thence  perhaps  this  wondrous  virtue  springs, 
'Tis  in  the  blood  of  innocence  alone — 
Good  cause  why  planters  never  try  their  own 


DR.  AUSTIN, 

OF  CECIL-STREET,  LONDOH. 

[May  26, 1792.] 

Austin  !  accept  a  grateful  verse  from  me, 
The  poet's  treasure,  no  inglorious  fee  ! 
Lov'd  by  the  Muses,  thy  ingenuous  mind 
Pleasing  requital  in  my  verse  may  find ; 
Verse  oft  has  dash'd  the  scythe  of  time  aside, 
Immortalizing  names  which  else  had  died  ; 
And  O  1  could  I  co«imand  the  glittering  wealth 
With  which  sick  kings  are  glad  to  purchase  health ; 
Yet,  if  extensive  fame,  and  sure  to  live, 
Were  in  the  power  of  verse  like  mine  to  give, 
I  would  not  recompense  his  art  with  less. 
Who,  giving  Mary  health,  heals  my  distress. 

Friend  of  my  friend  1*  I  lovo  thee,  tho*  unknown^*'^* 
And  boldly  call  thee,  bein^  fais,  my  own. 

*  Hayley, 


(227) 


SONNET 


ADDRESSED  tO 


WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa 

[June  2, 1792.] 

Hayley— thy  tenderness  fraternal  shown, 
In  our  first  mterview,  delightful  guest ! 
To  Mary  and  me  for  her  dear  sake  distressed, 

Such  as  it  is  has  made  my  heart  thy  own. 

Though  heedless  now  of  new  engagements  grown . 
For  threescore  winters  make  a  wintry  breast, 
And  I  had  purpos'd  ne'er  to  go  in  quest 

Of  Friendship  more,  except  with  God  alone. 
But  thou  hast  won  me  ;  nor  is  God  my  foe, 

Who,  ere  this  last  afflictive  scene  began. 
Sent  thee  to  mitigate  the  dreadful  blow, 
My  brother,  by  whose  sympathy  I  know 

Thy  true  deserts  infallibly  to  scan. 

Not  more  t'  admire  the  bard  than  love  the  man. 


(  228  ) 
CATHARINA : 

THE  SECOND  FART. 

On  her  Marriage  to  George  Courtenay,  Esq, 
iJune,  1792.1 

Believe  it  or  not,  as  you  choose, 

The  doctrine  is  certainly  true, 
That  the  future  is  known  to  the  muse» 

And  poets  are  oracles  too. 
I  did  but  express  a  desire, 

To  see  Catharina  at  home, 
At  the  side  of  my  friend  George's  fire, 

And  lo— she  is  actually  come. 

Such  prophecy  some  may  despise, 

But  the  wish  of  a  poet  and  friend 
Perhaps  is  approv'd  in  the  skies. 

And  therefore  attains  to  its  end. 
*Twas  a  wish  that  flew  ardently  forth 

From  a  bosom  effectually  warm*d 
With  the  talents,  the  graces,  and  worth 

Of  the  person  for  whom  it  was  formed 

Maria*  would  leave  us,  I  know, 

To  the  grief  and  regret  of  us  all. 
But  less  to  our  grief  could  we  view 

Catharina  the  Queen  of  the  Hall. 
And  therefore  I  wish'd  as  I  did. 

And  therefore  this  union  of  hands 
Not  a  whisper  was  heard  to  forbid. 

But  all  cry — Amen — to  the  banns 

♦  Lady  Throckmorton, 


— '-} 


AN  EPITAPH.  829 

Since  therefore  I  seem  to  incur 

No  danger  of  wishing  in  vain, 
When  making  good  wishes  for  Her, 

I  will  e'en  to  my  wishes  again — 
With  one  I  have  made  her  a  Wife, 

And  now  I  will  try  with  another, 
Which  I  cannot  suppress  for  my  life 

How  soon  I  can  make  her  a  Mother. 


AN  EPITAPH. 

[1792.] 

Here  lies  one  who  never  drew 
Blood  himself,  yet  many  slew ; 
Gave  the  gun  its  aim,  and  figure 
Made  in  field,  yet  ne*er  puU'd  trigger. 
Armed  men  have  gladly  made 
Him  their  guide,  and  him  obey'd 
At  his  signified  desire, 
Would  advan'ce,  present,  ancF  Fire—* 
Stout  he  was,  and  large  of  limb. 
Scores  have  fled  at  sight  of  him ; 
And  to  all  this  fame  he  rose 
Only  following  his  Nose. 
Neptune  was  he  calPd,  not  He 
Who  controls  the  boist'rous  sea, 
But  of  happier  command, 
Neptune  of  the  furrow'd  land  ; 
And  your  wonder  vain  to  shorten, 
Pointer  to  Sir  John  Throckmorton, 

Vol.  III.  20 


(232; 
EPITAPH 

ON 

MR.  CHESTER,  OF  CHICHELEY. 

l^pril  1793.] 

Tears  flow,  and  cease  not,  where  the  good  man  lies, 
Till  all  who  knew  him  follow  to  the  skies. 
Tears  therefore  fall  where  Chester's  ashes  sleep  ; 
Him  wife,  friends,  brothers,  children,  servants,  weep. 
And  justly — few  shall  ever  him  transcend 
As  husband,  parent,  brother,  master,  friend. 


A  PLANT  OF  VIRGIN'S  BOWER 

DESIGNED  TO   COYER  A  GARDEN-SEAT. 

[^nn^  0/1793.] 

Thrive,  gentle  plant ;  and  weave  a  bow^r 

For  Mary  and  for  me. 
And  deck  with  many  a  splendid  flow*r 

Thy  foliage  largo  and  free. 

Thou  cam'st  from  Eartham,  and  wilt  shade 

(If  truly  I  divine) 
Some  future  day  th'  illustrious  head 

Of  Him  who  made  thee  mine. 


TO  ANNE  BODHAM. 
Should  Daphne  show  a  jealous  frown. 

And  envy  seize  the  Bay, 
Affirmmg  none  so  fit  to  crown 

Such  honour'd  brows  as  they, 

Thy  cause  with  zeal  we  shall  defend, 
And  with  convincing  pow'r  ; 

For  why  should  not  the  Virgin's  Friend 
Be  crown'd  with  Virgin's  bow,*r  ?       .., 


TO  MY  COUSIN, 

ANNE  BODHAM, 

ON 

Receiving  from  her  a  J^Tetwork  Purse,  made  by  herself, 

[Jlfoy  4, 1793.] 

My  gentle  Anne,  whom  heretofore, 
When  I  was  young,  and  thou  no  more 

Than  plaything  for  a  nurse, 
I  danc'd  and  fondled  on  my  knee, 
A  kitten  both  in  size  and  glee, 

I  thank  thee  for  my  purse. 

Gold  pays  the  worth  of  all  things  here  . 
But  not  of  love  ; — that  gem's  too  dear 

For  richest  rogues  to  win  it ; 
I,  therefore,  as  a  proof  of  love. 
Esteem  thy  present  far  above 
-oct         The  best  things  kept  within  it. 
20* 


(234  ) 

INSCRIPTION 

For  an  Hermitage  in  the  Author's  Garden 

{May,  1793.] 

This  cabin,  Mary,  in  my  sight  appears, 
Built,  as  it  has  been,  in  our  waning  yearS; 
A  rest  afforded  to  our  weary  feet, 
Preliminary  to — the  last  retreat. 


TO  MRS.  UNWIN. 
[May,  1793.] 

Mast  !  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings. 

Such  aid  from  heav'n  as  some   have  feign'd  they 
drew, 

An  eloquence  scarce  giv'n  to  mortals,  new 
And  undebas'd  by  praise  of  meaner  things,        i- 
That  ere  through  age  or  wo  I  shed  my  wings^  // 

I  may  record  thy  worth  with  honour  due. 

In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true, 
And  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings. 

But  thou  hast  little  need.  There  is  a  book 
By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heav'nly  light, 

On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look, 
A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright ; 

There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  Mary,  shine. 

And,  since  thou  own'st  that  praise,  I  spare  thee  mme. 


<835) 

JOHN  JOHNSON. 


His  presenting  me  ioitfi  an  aritiqiie  hust  of  ttonier 

IMay,  179a] 

Kinsman  belov'd  and  as  a  Bon,  bf  m^ !  • 

When  I  behold  this  fruit  of  thy  regardj 
The  sculptured  form  of  ray  old  favorite  bard, 
I  rev'rence  feel  for  him,  and  lov6  for  thee, 
Joy  too  and  grief.    Much  joy  that  there  should^  b^-'^ 
Wise  men  and  learn*d,  who  grudge  not  to  rewaWl  -'^ 
With  some  applause  my  bold  attempt  and  hard,    '  ^ 
Which  others  scorn :  Criticks  by  courtesy.  ' ' 

The  grief  is  this,  that  sunk  in  Homer*s  mine 
I  loose  my  precious  years  now  soon  to  fail, 
Handling  his  gold,  which,  howsoe'er  it  shine, 

Proves  dross,  when  balanc'd  in  the  Christian  scalo. 
Be  wiser  thou — like  our  forefather  Donne, 
Seek  heavenly  wealth,  and  work  for  God  alone. 


(  236  ) 

TO 

A  YOUNG  FRIEND, 

ON 

His  arriving  at  Cambridge  wet,  when  no  rcnn  i 
fallen  there. 

^cad 

[May,  1793.] 

If  Gideon's  fleece,  which  drench'd  with  dew  he 
found, 
While  moisture  none  refresh'd  the  herbs  around,     . 
Might  fitly  represent  the  Church  endow 'd               .yi  i 
With  heav'nly  gifts,  to  heathens  not  allow'd  ;          vol 
In  pledge,  perhaps,  of  favours  from  on  high,          7/ 
Thy  locks  were  wet  when  other^s  locks  were  dry.  V 
Heav'n  grant  us  half  the  omen — may  we  see 
Not  drought  on  others,  but  much  dew  on  thee  I 

.nsli 

•-0®©- 

.1 

A  TALE. 

[Junej  1793.] 

In  Scotland's  realm  where  trees  are  few, 

Nor  even  shrubs  abound  ; 
But  where,  however  bleak  the  view. 

Some  better  things  are  found. 

A  TALE.  9.27 

For  husband  there  and  wife  may  boast 

Their  union  undefil'd. 
And  false  ones  are  as  rare  ahnost 

As  hedge-rows  in  the  wild. 

In  Scotland's  realm,  forlorn  and  bare, 

The  hist'ry  chanc'd  of  lato — 
This  hist'ry  of  a  wedded  pair, 

A  chaffinch  atid  his  mate. 

The  spring  drew  near,  each  folt  &  breast 

With  genial  instinct  fill'd ; 
They  paired  and  would  have  built  a  nest, 

But  found  not  where  to  build. 

The  heath  uncovered,  and  the  moors, 

Except  with  snow  and  sleet, 
Sea-beaten  rocks,  and  naked  shores 

Could  yield  them  no  retreat. 

Long  time  a  breeding-place  they  sought^ 

Till  both  grew  vex'd  and  tir'd ; 
At  length  a  ship  arriving,  brought 

The  good  so  long  desir'd, 

A  ship  !  could  such  a  restless  thing 

Afford  them  place  of  rest  ? 
Or  was  the  merchant  charg'd  to  bring 

Th9  homeless  birds  a  nest  ? 

Hush — siknt  hearers  profit  most 

This  racer  of  the  sea 
Proved  kinder  to  them  than  the  coast. 

It  serv'd  them  with  a  Tree. 

But  such  a  tree  !  'twas  shaven  deal, 

The  tree  they  call  a  Mast, 
And  had  a  hollow  with  a  wheel 

Through  which  the  tackle  pass'd 


! 
238  A  TALE.  \ 

Within  that  cavity  aloft,  {  lol 

Their  roofless  homo  they  fix'd, 
Form'd  with  materials  neat  and  soft,        iwiA 
Bents,  wool,  and  feathers  mix'd. 

Four  iv'ry  eggs  soon  pave  its  floor  > 

With  russet  specks  bedight — 
The  vessel  weighs,  forsakes  the  shore 

And  lessens  to  the  sight. 

The  mother-bird  is  gone  to  sea 

As  she  had  chang'd  her  kind ; 
But  goes  the  male  ?  Far  wiser,  he 

Is  doubtless  left  behind  ? 

No — soon  as  firom  ashore  he  saw 

The  winged  mansion  move, 
He  flew  to  reach  it,  by  a  law 

Of  never-failing  love. 

Then  perching  at  his  consort's  side, 

Was  briskly  borne  along, 
The  billows  and  the  blast  defied, 

And  cheer'd  her  with  a  song. 

The  seaman  with  sincere  delight. 

His  feather 'd  sliipmates  eyes. 
Scarce  lest  exulting  in  the  sight 

Than  when  he  tows  a  prize. 

For  seamen  much  believe  in  signs,  ■ 

And  from  a  chance  so  new. 
Each  some  approaching  good  divinett, 

And  may  his  hopes  be  true  ! 

Hail  honour' d  land !  a  desert  where 

Not  even  birds  can  hide, 
Yet  parent  of  this  loving  pair 

Whom  nothing  could  divide. 


A  TALE.  '>39 

And  ye  who,  rather  than  resign 

Your  matrimonial  plan, 
Were  not  afraid  to  plough  the  brine 

In  company  with  Man. 

For  whose  lean  country  much  disdain 

We  English  often  show, 
Yet  from  a  richer  nothing  gain 

But  wantonness  and  wo. 

Be  it  your  fortune,  year  by  year, 

The  same  resource  to  prove. 
And  may  ye,  sometimes  landing  here, 

Instruct  us  how  to  love  ! 


This  Tale  is  fnmded  on  an  article  of  intelligence  which  ih* 
Author  found  in  the  Buckinghamshire  Heraldf/or  SoUurdau, 
June  1,  n9S,.tntfie  following  words, 

Glasgow,  May  23. 
In  a  block,  or  pulley,  near  the  head  of  ihe  mast  of 
a  gabert,  now  lying  at  the  Broomielaw,  there  is  a 
chaffinch's  nest  and  four  eggs.  The  nest  was  built 
while  the  vessel  lay  at  Greenock,  and  was  followed 
hither  by  both  birds.  Though  the  block  is  occasional- 
ly lowered  for  the  mspection  of  the  curious,  the  birds 
have  not  forsaken  the  nest.  The  cock,  however,  visits 
the  nest  but  seldom,  while  the  hen  never  leaves  it  but 
*^ben  she  descends  to  fcbe  hull  for  food. 


'    '  (  240  > 

A 

-  :  TO 

WILUAM  HAYLEY,  ESQ. 

IJune  29, 1793.] 

D£A.R  architect  of  fine  chateaux  in  air, 
Worthier  to  stand  for  ever,  if  they  couM, 
Than  any  built  of  stone,  or  yet  of  wood, 

For  back  of  royal  elephant  to  bear ! 

O  for  permission  from  the  skies  to  share, 
Much  to  my  own,  though  little  to  thy  good. 
With  thee  (not  subject  to  the  jealous  mood  !) 

A  partnership  of  literary  ware  ! 

But  I  am  bankrupt  now ;  and  doom'd  henceforth 
To  drudge,  in  descant  dry,  on  other*s  lays  j 

Bards,  I  acknowledge,  of  unequall'd  worth  ! 
But  what  is  commentator's  happiest  praise  ' 

That  he  has  furnished  lights  for  other  eyes. 
Which  they,  who  need  them,  use,  and  then  despise 


(341  ) 


A  SPANIEL,  CALLED  BEAU. 

KILLING  ▲  YOUNG  JBIRD. 

[July  15, 1793.] 

A  Spaniel,  Beau,  that  fares  like  you, 

Well  fed,  and  at  his  ease. 
Should  wiser  be  than  to  pursue 

Each  trifle  tliat  he  sees. 

.,•■?■ 

But  you  have  kill'd  a  tiny  bird. 
Which  flew  not  till  to-day,  : 

Against  my  orders,  whom  you  hedl^d^ 
Forbidding  you  the  prey. 

'  {  ftsffw  haA 

Nor  did  you  kill  that  you  might  eat," 

And  ease  a  doggish  pain. 
For  him,  thouffh  chas'd  with  furious  heat, 

You  left  where  he  was  slain. 


Nor  was  he  of  the  thievish  sort,.    *: 
Or  one  whom  blood  allures,     J  "^  ^ 

But  innocent  was  all  his  sport '"'  ^^ 
Whom  you  have  torn  for  yours 


My  dog  !  what  remedy  remains, 
Since,  teach  you  all  1  can, 

I  see  you,  after  all  my  pains, 
So  much  resemble  Man  ? 
Vol,  III.  21 


(240) 


WILUAM  HAYLEY,  ES^ 

lJun0  29, 1793.} 

DEA.R  architect  of  fine  chateaux  in  air> 
Worthier  to  stand  for  ever,  if  they  cou)^. 
Than  any  built  of  stone,  or  yet  of  wood, 

For  back  of  royal  elephant  to  bear ! 

O  for  permission  from  the  skies  to  share, 
Much  to  my  own,  though  little  to  thy  good. 
With  thee  (not  subject  to  the  jealous  mood  !) 

A  partnership  of  literary  ware  ! 

But  I  am  bankrupt  now ;  and  doomed  henceforth 
To  drudge,  in  descant  dry,  on  other*s  lays ; 

Bards,  I  acknowledge,  of  unequall'd  worth  ! 
But  what  is  commentator's  happiest  praise  ^ 

That  he  has  furnished  lights  for  other  eyes, 
Which  they,  who  need  them,  use,  and  then  despise 


(S41) 


A  SPANIEL,  CALLED  BEAU. 

KILLING  A  YOUNG  SXRD. 

IJuly  15, 1793.] 

A  Spaniel,  Beau,  that  fares  like  you, 

Well  fed,  and  at  his  ease, 
Should  wiser  be  than  to  pursue 

Each  trifle  that  he  sees. 

r 

But  you  have  kill'd  a  tiny  bird. 

Which  flew  not  till  to-day, 
Against  my  orders,  whom  you  heaid^^ 

Forbidding  you  the  prey. 

Nor  did  you  kill  that  you  might  eat, 

And  ease  a  doggish  pain. 
For  him,  though  chas'd  with  furious  heat, 

Tou  lefl  where  he  was  slain. 

Nor  was  he  of  the  thievish  sort, 

Or  one  whom  blood  allures,    j^^^-^^^'    ^ 

But  innocent  was  all  his  sport  *"  "'^  ' 
Whom  you  have  torn  for  yours 

My  dog  !  what  remedy  remains, 

Since,  teach  you  all  I  can, 
I  see  you,  after  all  my  pains, 

So  much  resemble  Man  ?  ; '- 1 

^OL.  m.  21 


t^42) 


BEAU'S  REPLY. 

Sir,  when  I  flew  to  seize  the  bird 

In  spite  of  your  command, 
A  louder  voice  than  yours  I  heard, 

And  harder  to  withstand. 

You  cried — forbear— but  in  my  breast 
A  mightier  cried — proceed — 

Twas  Nature,  Sir,  whose  strong  behest 
Impell'd  me  to  the  deed. 

Yet  much  as  nature  I  respect, 

I  ventur'd  once  to  break,    . 
(As  you,  perhaps,  may  recollect) 

Her  precept  for  your  sake  ; 

And  when  your  linnet  on  a  day. 

Passing  his  prison  door. 
Had  flutter'd  all  his  strength  away. 

And  panting  press'd  the  floor ,^     ^  ^^ 

Well  knowing  him  a  sacred  thing, 

Not  destin'd  to  my  tooth, 
I  only  kiss'd  his  ruflled  wing. 

And  lick'd  the  feathers  smooth. 

Let  my  obedience  then  excuse 

My  disobedience  now. 
Nor  some  reproof  yourself  refuse 

From  your  aggriev'd  Bow-wow ; 

If  killing  birds  be  such  a  crime, 

(Which  I  can  hardly  see,) 
What  think  you.  Sir,  of  killing  Time 

With  verse  address'd  to  me  ? 


(243) 

ANSWER 

TO 

Stanzas  addressed  to  Lady  Hesketh,  by  Miss  Catha- 
rine Fanshawy  in  returning  a  Poem  of  Mr. 
Cowper*ls  lent  to  her  on  condition  she  should 
neither  show  it,  nor  take  a  copy. 

[1793.] 

To  be  remembered  thus  is  fame, 

And  in  the  first  degree  ; 
And  did  the  few  like  her  the  same, 

The  press  might  sleep  for  me. 

So  Homer,  in  the  mem'ry  st©«'  * 

Of  many  a  Grecian  belle. 
Was  once  preserv'd — a  richer  hoardi, 

But  never  lodged  so  well. 


THE  SPANISH  ADMIRAL, 
COUNT  GRAVINA, 


His  translating  the  Author's  Song  on  a  Rose  into 
Italian  Verse. 

[1793.] 

Mt  rose,  Gravina,  blooms  anew, 
And,  steep 'd  not  now  in  rain. 

But  in  Castalian  streams  by  You, 
Will  never  fade  again. 


(244) 

ON 

FLAXMAN'S  PENELOPE. 

ISeptemberj  1793.] 

The  suitors  sinn'd,  but  with  a  fair  excuse. 
Whom  all  this  elegance  might  well  seducr 
Nor  can  our  censure  on  the  husband  fall, 
Who,  for  a  wife  so  lovely,  slew  them  all. 


RECEIVING  HEYNE'S  VIRGIL 


FROM   MR.   HATLET. 


[Octohery  1793.] 


I  SHOULD  have  deem'd  it  once  an  effort  vain, 

To  sweeten  more  sweet  Maro's  matchless  strai*,-.'!^ 

But  from  that  errour  now  behold  me  free. 

Since  1  receiv'd  him  as  a  ^ift  from  Thee. 


.  ^45  f 

••>-,  • 

jii^^ic   nn  ill 

TO  MARY. 

[Autumn  of  1793.] 

odT 

The  twentieth  year  is  well  nigh  past 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast, 
Ah  would  that  this  n^ght  be  the  last ! 

My  Mary' 

Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 

I  see  them  daily  weaker  grow 

*Twas  my  diStress  that  brought  thee  low, 

My  Mary* 

,dT 

'.'■Xt 

Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store. 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore,                        ^jj^g  r     * 
Now  rust  disus'd,  and  shine  no  more,                 *   •, .   ,j 

MyMary'.iv/ 

*^or  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 
Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will, 

My  Mary! 

IT 

But  well  thou  play'dst  the  housewife's  part. 
And  all  thy  threads,  with  magick  art, 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart, 

My  Mary  ♦ 

Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 

Like  language  utter'd  in  a  dream ; 

Vet  me  they  charm,  whate'er  the  theme. 

My  Mary  • 
21* 

246  TO  MARY. 

Thy  silver  locks  once  auburn  bright, 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  lighf^ 


My  Mary 


For  could  I  view  nor  them  nor  thee, 
What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see  ? 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 

My  Mary ' 

Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline,  '  ^^o'® 

Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign  ; 
Yet  gently  prest,  press  gently  mine, 

My  Mary  ♦ 

vriT 

Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  prov'st,     ^ 
That  now  at  every  step  thou  mov'st, 
Upheld  by  two,  yet  still  thou  lov'st, 

My  Mary! 

And  still  to  love,  though  prest  with  ill, 
In  wintry  ago  to  feel  no  chill, 
"With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still, 

_  My  Mary        ^ 

But  ah  !  by  constant  lieed  I  know,  '  '"-^''  ''•*'•  ^^' 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show,  ^^  ^'^^  ^^^S^^  V' 
Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  wo. 

My  Mary  I 

:;oiiJ  .i-ii/  Ji.. 

And  should  my  future  Ibt  be  cast  [  X*^^  ^^^  ^^\ ' 

With  much  resemblance  of  the  past. 
Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last, 

My  Mary! 

?i  7fIT 


(247> 


MONTES  GLACIALES, 


IN    OCEANO    GERMANICO    NATANTES. 
[March  11,  1799.] 

En,  qucB  prodigia  ex  oris  allata  remotis, 
Oras  adveniunt  pavefacta  per  cequora  nostras 
Non  equidcm  priscse  sasclum  rediisse  videtur 
Pyrrhaj,  cum  Proteus  pecus  altos  visere  montes 
Et  sylvas,  egit.     Sed  tempora  vix  leviora 
Adsunt,  evulsi  quando  radicitus  alti 
In  mare  descendunt  montes,  fluctusque  pererrant 
Quid  vero  hoc  monstri  est  magis  et  mirabile  visu ! 
Spiendentes  video,  ceu  pulchro  ex  sBre  vel  auro 
Conflates,  rutilisque  accinctos  undique  gemmis, 
Bacca  caerulea,  et  flammas  imitante  pyropo. 
Ex  oriente  adsunt,  ubi  gazas  optima  tellus 
Parturit  omnigenas,  quibus  8Bva  per  omnia  sumj»tU^  -^^^ 
Ingenti  finxere  sibi  diademata  reges  ?  '■   '  oU 

Vix  hoc  crediderim.     Non  fallunt  taha  acutos 
Mercatorum  oculos  :  prius  et  quam  littora  Gangis 
Liquissent,  avidis  gratissima  prseda  fuissent. 
Ortos  unde  putemus  ?  An  illos  VesVius  atrox 
Protulit,  ignivomisve  ejecit  faucibus  JEtna  ? 
Luce  micant  propria,  Phoebive,  per  aera  parum 
Nunc  stimulantis  equos^  argentea  tela  retorquent  ? 
Phcebi  luce  micant.     Ventis  et  fluctibus  altis 
Appulsi,  et  rapidis  subter  currentibus  undis. 
Tandem  non  fallunt  oculos.     Capita  alta  videre  est 
Multa  onerata  nive,  et  canis  conspersa  pruinis 
CsBtcra  sunt  glacies.     Procul  hinc,  ubi  Bruma  fero 
omnes 


248  MONTES  GLACIALES. 

Contristat  menses,  portenta  haec  horrida  nobis 
Ilia  strui  voluit.     Quoties  de  culmine  suramo 
Clivorum  fluerent  in  littora  prona,  soIuIsb 
Sole,  nives,  propero  tendentes  in  mare  cursu, 
Ilia  gelu  fixit.     Paulatim  attollere  sese 
Mirum  coepit  opus  ;  glacieque  ab  origine  rerum 
In  glaciem  aggesta  sublimes  vertice  tandem 
Aquavit  montes,  non  crescere  nescia  moles. 
Sic  immensa  diu  stetit,  seternumque  stetisset 
Congeries,  hominum  neque  vi  neque  mobilis  arte, 
Littora  ni  tandem  declivia  deseruisset, 
Pondere  victa  suo.     Dilabitur.     Omnia  circum 
Antra  et  saxa  gemunt,  subito  concussa  fragorc, 
Dum  ruit  in  pelagus  tanquam  studiosa  natandi, 
Ingens  tota  strues.     Sic  Delos  dicitur  olim, 
Insula,  in  ^gaeo  fluitasse  erratica  ponto. 
Sed  non  ex  glacie  Delos  j  neque  torpida  E^lum 
Bruma  inter  rupes  genuit  nudam  sterilemque. 
Sed  vestita  herbis  erat  ilia,  ornataque  nunquam 
Decidua  lauro  ;  et  Delum  dilexit  Apollo. 
At  vos,  errones  horrendi,  et  caligine  digni 
Cimmeria,  Deus  idem  odit,    Natalia  vestra, 
Nubibus  involvens  frontem,  non  ille  tueri 
Sustinuit.     Patrium  vos  ergo  requirite  caelum  ! 
Ite  !  Redite  !  Timete  moras  ;  ni  leniter  austro 
Spirante,  et  nitidas  Phoebo  jaculante  sagittas 
Hostili  vobis,  pcreatis  gurgite  misti 


(  249  ) 


ON  THE  ICE  ISLANDS, 


SEEN    FLOATING    IN   THE    GERMAN    OCEAN. 
[March  19, 1799.] 

What  portents,  from  what  distant  region,  ride, 

Unseen  till  now  in  ours,  th'  astonish'd  tide 

In  ages  past,  old  Proteus,  with  his  droves 

Of  sea-calves,  sought  the  mountains  and  the  groves. 

But  now,  descending  whence  of  late  they  stood, 

Themselv^'Pthe  mountains  seem  to  rove  the  flood. 

Dire  times  were  they,  full  charg'd  with  human  woes ; 

And  these,  scarce  less  calamitous  than  those, 

What  view  we  now  ?  More  wondrous  still !  Behold  ! 

Like  burnish'd  brass  they  shine,  or  beaten  gold  ; 

And  all  around  the  pearl's  pure  splendour  show, 

And  all  around  the  ruby's  fiery  glow. 

Come  they  from  India,  where  the  burning  Earth, 

All  bounteous,  gives  her  richest  treasures  birth ; 

And  where  the  costly  gems,  that  beam  around 

The  brows  of  mightiest  potentates,  are  found  ? 

No.     Never  such  a  countless  dazzling  store 

Had  left,  unseen,  the  Ganges'  peopled  shore 

Rapacious  hands,  and  ever-watchful  eyes, 

Should  sooner  far  have  marked  and  seized  the  prize. 

Whence  sprang  they  then  ?  Ejected  have  they  come 

From  Ves'vius',  or  from  ^Etna's  burning  womb  ? 

Thus  shine  they  self-illum'd,  or  but  display 

The  borrow'd  splendours  of  a  cloudless  day  ? 

With  borrow'd  beams  they  shine.     The  gales,  that 

breathe 
Now  landward,  and  the  current's  force  beneath, 


250  THE  ICE  ISLANDS. 

Have  borne  them  nearer  ;  and  the  nearer  sight, 

Advantag'd  more,  contemplates  them  aright. 

Their  lofty  summits  cres:ed  high,  they  show, 

With  mingled  sleet,  and  long-encumbent  snow. 

The  rest  is  ice.     Far  hence,  where,  most  severe, 

Bleak  winter  well-nigh  saddens  all  the  year, 

Their  infant  growth  began.     He  bade  arise 

Their  uncouth  forms,  portentous  in  our  eyes. 

Oft  as  dissolv'd  by  transient  suns,  the  snow 

Left  the  tall  cliff  to  join  the  flood  below  > 

He  caught,  and  curdled  with  a  freezing  blast 

The  current,  ere  it  reach'd  the  boundless  waste. 

By  slow  degrees  uprose  the  wondrous  pile, 

And  long  successive  ages  roll'd  the  TS'hile  ; 

Till,  ceaseless  in  its  growth,  it  claim'd  to  stand, 

Tall  as  its  rival  mountains  on  the  land. 

Thus  stood,  and,  unremovable  by  skill,       ^ 

Or  force  of  man,  had  stood  the  structure  still ; 

But  that,  tho'  firmly  fix'd,  supplanted  yet 

By  pressure  of  its  own  enormous  weight, 

It  left  the  shelving  beach — and,  with  a  sound 

That  shook  the  bellowing  waves  and  rocks  around, 

Self-launch'd,  and  swiftly,  to  the  briny  wave, 

As  if  instinct  with  strong  desire  to  lave, 

Down  went  the  pond'rous  mass.     So  bards  of  Did, 

How  Delos  swam  th'  ^gean  deep,  have  told, 

But  not  of  ice  was  Delos.     Delos  bore 

Herb,  fruit,  and  flow'r.  She,  crown'd  with  laurel,  worO} 

Ev'n  under  wintry  skies,  a  summer  smilo  ; 

And  Delos  was  Apollo's  fav'rite  isle. 

But,  horrid  wand'rers  of  the  deep,  to  you 

He  deems  cimmerian  darkness  only  due. 

Your  hated  birth  he  deign'd  not  to  survey, 

But,  scornful,  turn'd  his  glorious  eyes  away. 

Hence  !  Seek  your  home,  nor  longer  rashly  dare 

The  darts  of  Phoebus,  and  a  softer  air  ; 

Lest  ye  regret,  too  late,  your  native  coast, 

In  no  congenial  gulf  for  ever  lost ' 


(251  } 

THE  CASTAWAlfeino .    >: 

[Jtfarcii,  20, 1799.] 

Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky  ; 

Th'  Atlantic  billows  roar'd, 
When  such  a  destined  wretch  as  I, 

Wash'd  headlong  from  on  board, 
Of  friends,  of  hope,  of  all  bereft, 
His  floating  home  for  ever  left. 

No  braver  chief  could  Albion  boast, 
Than  he,  with  whom  he  went, 

Nor  eipr  ship  left  Albion's  coast. 
With  warmer  wishes  sent. 

He  lov'd  them  both,  but  both  in  vain. 

Nor  him  beheld,  nor  her  again. 

Not  long  beneath  the  whelming  brino 

Expert  to  swim,  he  lay  : 
Nor  soon  he  felt  his  strength  decline, 

Or  courage  die  away ; 
But  wag'd  with  death  a  lasting  strife, 
Supported  by  despair  of  life 

I  He  shouted  ;  nor  his  friends  had  fail'd 

i  To  check  the  vessel's  course. 

But  so  the  furious  blast  prevail'd, 

That,  pitiless,  perforce. 
They  left  their  outcast  mate  behind, 
And  scudded  still  before  the  wind. 

Some  succour  yet  they  could  afford  • 

And,  such  as  storms  allow, 
The  cask,  the  coop,  the  floated  cord, 

Delay'd  not  to  bestow 


252  THE  CASTAWAY. 

But  he  (they  knew)  nor  ship  nor  shore, 
Whate'er  they  gave,  should  visit  more 

Nor,  cruel  as  it  seem'd,  could  ha 
Their  haste  himself  condemn, 

Aware  that  flight,  in  such  a  sea, 
Alone  could  rescue  them  ; 

Yet  bitter  felt  it  still  to  die 

Deserted,  and  his  friends  so  nigh. 

He  long  survives,  who  lives  an  h<flP^,  r^*^  v^q 
In  ocean,  self-upheld :  .  (:ij^,^fj  ^iH 

And  so  long  he,  with  unspent  pow'r 
His  destiny  repell'd  :  i  o?" 

And  ever  as  the  mmutes  flew,  r 

Entreated  help,  or  criod— "  Adiea  •*'  jf  >  loVi 

At  length,  his  transient  respite  past, 

His  comrades,  who  before 
Had  heard  his  voice  in  ev'ry  blast, 

Could  catch  the  sound  no  more. 
For  then,  by  toil  subdued,  he  drank 
The  stifling  wave,  and  then  he  sank. 

No  poet  wept  him :  but  the  page 

Of  narrative  sincere^ 
That  tells  his  name,  his  worth,  his  age 

Is  wet  with  Anson's  tear. 
And  tears  by  bards  or  heroes  shed 
Alike  immortalize  the  dead. 

I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream, 

Descanting  on  his  fate. 
To  give  the  melancholy  theme 

A  more  enduring  date. 
But  misery  still  delights  to  trace  » ;/r 

Its  »«aablance  in  another's  case 


THRAX.  '<J5;> 

No  voice  divine  the  storm  allay 'd, 

No  light  propitious  shone  ; 
When,  snatch'd  from  all  effectual  aid, 

We  perish'd  each  alone  : 
But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea, 
And  whelm'd  in  deeper  gulfs  than  be-A«HT 

■if  ■ 
"H 


TRANSLATIONS 


VINCENT  BOURNEiJ^ 


THRAX. 

Threicium  infantem,  cum  lucem  intravit  et  aura% 

Fletibus  excepit  mcestus  uterque  parens. 
Threicium  infantem,  cum  luce  exivit  et  auris, 

Extulit  ad  funus  laetus  uterque  parens, 
Interea  tu  Roma ;  et  tu  tibi  Greecia  plaudens, 

Dicitis,  heec  vera  est  Thraica  barbanes. 
LcBtitiflB  causam,  causamque  exquirite  luctus ; 

Vosqae  est  quod  doceat  Thraica  barbarifis. 

VoL-IIL  23 


(254  ) 


THE  THRACIAN. 

Thracian  parents,  at  his  birth, 
Mourn  their  babe  with  many  a  tear, 

But  with  undissembled  mirth 
Place  him  breathless  on  his  bier. 

Greece  and  Rome  with  equal  scorn, 
"  O  the  savages  !"  exclaim, 

"  Whether  they  rejoice  or  mourn, 
Well  entitled  to  the  name !" 

But  the  cause  of  this  concern, 
And  this  pleasure  would  they  trace, 

Even  they  might  somewhat  learn 
From  the  savages  of  Thrace 


MUTUA  BENEVOLENTIA 

primA^ia  lex  naturje  est. 


la 


Per  LibysB  Androcles  siccas  errabat  arenas  ? 

Qui  vagus  iratum  fugerat  exul  herum. 
Lassato  tandem  fractoque  labore  viarum. 

Ad  scopuli  patuit  caeca  caverna  latus 
Hanc  subit ;  et  placido  dederat  vix  membra  sopori 

Cum  subito  immanis  rugit  ad  antra  leo  ; 
Ille  pedem  attollens  Icesum,  et  miser abilo  murmur 

Edens,  qua  poterat  voce,  precatur  opem 


MUTUA  BENEVOLENTIA.  255 

Perculsus  novitate  rei,  incertusque  timore, 

Vix  tandem  tremulas  adniovet  erro  manus  ; 
Et  spinam  explorans  (nam  fixa  in  vulnere  spina 

HflBrebat)  canto  moliiter  ungue  trahit : 
Continuo  dolor  omnis  abit,  teter  fluit  humor  : 

Et  coit,  absterso  sanguine,  rupta  cutis  ; 
Nunc  iterum  sylvas  dumosque  peragrat ;  et  afTcrt 

Providus  assiduas  hospes  ad  antra  dapes. 
Juxta  epulis  accumbit  homo  conviva  leonis, 

Nee  crudos  dubitat  participare  cibos. 
Quis  tamen  ista  ferat  desertaB  tsedia  vitse  ? 

Vix  furor  ultoris  tristior  esset  heri. 
Devotum  certis  caput  objectare  periclis 

Et  patrios  statuit  rursus  adire  lares. 
Traditur  hie,  fera  facturus  spectacula,  plebi,  ..i; 

Accipit  et  miserum  tristis  arena  reum,  rif 

Irruit  e  caveis  fors  idem  impastus  et  acer, 

Et  raedicum  attonito  suspicit  ore  leo. 
Suspicit,  et  veterem  agnoscens  vetus  hospes  amicum 

Decurabit  notos  blandulus  ante  pedes. 
Quid  vero  perculsi  animis,  stupuere  Quirites  ? 

Ecquid  prodigii,  tBisiift.  Roma,  vides  ? 
Unius  naturiB  opus  est ;  aa,  i3uia  furorem 

Sumere  qu®  jussit,  ponere  sola  jubet. 


(  256  ) 


RECIPROCAL   KINDNESS, 


THE  PRIMARY  LAW  OF  NATURE.  .7 

Androcles  from  his  injur'd  lord  in  dread  - 

Of  instant  death,  to  Libya's  desert  fled. 
Tir'd  with  his  toilsome  flight,  and  parch'd  with  hefiit,  ^ 
He  spied,  at  length,  a  cavern's  cool  retreat ; 
But  scarce  had  giv'n  to  rest  his  weary  frame, 
When  hugest  of  his  kind,  a  lion  came  : 
He  roar'd  approaching ;  but,  the  savage  din  — 

To  plaintive  murmurs  chang'd,  arriv'd  within, 
And  with  expressive  looks  his  lifted  paw  ' 

Presenting,  aid  implor'd  from  whom  he  saw. 
The  fugitive,  through  terrour  at  a  stand, 
Dar'd  not  awhile  afibrd  his  trembling  hand, 
But  bolder  grown,  at  length  inherent  found  i^iu^ 

A  pointed  thorn,  and  drew  it  from  the  wound.      ^ 
The  cure  was  wrought  ;  he  wip'd  the  sanious  bloodf  ' 
And  firm  and  free  from  pain  the  lion  stood. 
Agam  he  seeks  the  wilds,  and  day  by  day, 
Regales  his  inmate  with  the  parted  prey, 
Nor  he  disdains  the  dole,  though  unprepar'd. 
Spread  on  the  ground,  and  with  a  lion  shar'd. 
But  thus  to  live — still  lost — sequester'd  still- 
Scarce  seem'd  his  lord's  revenge  an  heavier  ill. 
Home  !  native  home  !  O  might  he  but  repair  ! 
He  must — he  will,  though  death  attends  him  there. 
He  goes,  and  doom'd  to  perish  on  the  sands 
Of  the  full  Theatre  unpitied  stands  ; 
When  lo  !  the  self-same  lion  from  his  cage 
Flies  to  devour  him,  famish'd  into  rage. 
He  flies,  but  viewing  in  his  purpos'd  prey 
The  man,  his  healer,  pauses  on  his  way. 


MANUALE.  257 

A.nd  soften'd  by  remembrance  into  sweet 
A.nd  kind  composure,  crouches  at  his  feet. 

Mute  with  astonishment  th'  assembly  gaze  : 
But  why,  ye  Romans  ?  Whence  your  mute  amaze  ^ 
All  this  is  natural ;  nature  bade  him  rend 
An  enemy  ;  she  bids  him  spare  a  friend. 


MANUALE 

Typographia  omni  atUiquiuSj  nulli  uspiam  Librorum 
insertwn  Catalogo. 

ExiGUUS  liber  est,  muliebri  creber  in  usu, 

Per  se  qui  dici  bibliotheca  potest. 
Copia  verborum  non  est,  sed  copia  rerum ; 

Copia  (quod  nemo  deneget)  utilior, 
Rubris  consuitur  pannis  ,  fors  texitur  auro  ; 

Bis  sexta  ad  summum  pagina  claudit  opus. 
Nil  habet  a  tergo  titulive  aut  nominis  ;  intus 

Thesauros  artis  servat,  et  intus  opes  ; 
Intus  opes,  quas  nympha  sinu  pulcherrima  gestet, 

Quas  nive  candidior  tractet  ametque  manus, 
Quando  instrumentum  prsBsens  sibi  postulat  usus, 

Majusve,  aut  operis  pro  ratione,  minus. 
Et  genere  et  modulo  diversa  habet  arma,  gradatim 

Digesta,  ad  numeros  attenuata  suos. 
Primum  enchiridii  folium  majuscula  profert, 

Qualia  quse  blaeso  est  lumine  poscat  anus. 
Quod  sequitur  folium,  matronis  arma  ministrat, 

Dicere  quae  magnis  proximiora  licet. 
Tertium,  item  quartum,  quintumque  minuscula  sup- 
plet 

Sed  non  ejusdem  singula  queeque  loci. 


''2§8  A  MANUAL. 

Disposita  ordinibus  certis,  discrimina  servant ,     ;»ai 

Quae  sibi  conveniant,  seligat  unde  nurus. 
Ultima  quae  restant  quae  multa  minutula  nympha 

Dicit,  sunt  sexti  divitiee  folii. 
Quantillo  in  spatio  doctrina  O  quanta  latescit !     tufi 

Quam  tamen  obscuram  vix  brevitate  voces.   ^'  ' 
Non  est  interpres,  nee  comraentarius  ullus, 

Aut  index  ;  tam  sunt  omnia  perspicua. 
iEtatem  ad  quamvis,  ad  captum  ita  fingitur  omnem 

Ut  nihil  auxilii  postulet  inde  liber. 
Millia  librorum  numerat  perplura  ;  nee  uUum 

BodlsBi  huie  jactat  bibliotheea  parem. 
Millia  Coesareo  numerat  quoque  munere  Granta, 

Haec  tamen  est  inter  millia  tale  nihil. 
Non  est,  non  istis  auetor  de  millibus  unus,.       ^       -. 

Cui  tanta  ingenii  vis,  vel  aeumen,  inosf '   '-'    **- 


A  MANUAL, 

More  ancient  than  the  Art  of  Printing,  and  not  to  (< 
found  in  any  Catalogue. 

There  is  a  book,  which  we  may  call 

(Its  excellence  is  such) 
Alone  a  library  tho'  small ; 

The  ladies  thumb  it  much 

'Words  none,  things  numerous  it  contains  ; 

And,  things  With  words  compar'd. 
Who  needs  be  told,  that  has  his  brains. 

Which  merits  rpost  regard  !  ^ 

Ofttimes  its  leaver  of  scarl^  hue 

A  golden  edging  boast ; 
And  open'd,  it  displays  to  view 

Twelve  pages  at  tho  most. 


A  MANUAL.  '^" 

Nor  name,  nor  title,  starap'd  behind^ 

Adorns  its  outer  part ; 
But  all  within  'tis  richly  lin'd,  ■•  "^ 

A  magazine  of  art. 

The  whitest  hands  that  secret  hoail  iJo-iiJoH* 
Oft  visit :  and  the  fair  mvI  oK. 

Preserve  it  in  their  bosom  stor'd  loVi 

As  with  a  miser's  care.  f 

Thence  implements  of  ev'ry  size. 

And  form'd  for  various  use, 
(They  need  but  to  consult  their  eyes) 

They  readily  produce. 

The  largest  and  the  longest  kind 

Possess  the  foremost  page, 
A  sort  most  needed  by  the  blind, 

Or  nearly  such  from  age. 

The  full-charg'd  leaf,  which  next  ensues, 

Presents,  in  bright  array, 
The  smaller  sort,  which  matrons  use, 

Not  quite  so  blind  as  they.  '^ 

pioirp 
The  third,  the  fourth,  the  fifth  supply       •  't  boS 

What  their  occasions  ask, 
Who  with  a  more  discerning  eye 

Perform  a  nicer  task. 

But  still  with  regular  decrease 

From  size  to  size  they  fall,  .  i 

In  ev'ry  leaf  grow  less  and  less  ;  -i; 

The  last  are  least  of  all.  i]  I 

O  !  what  a  fund  of  genius,  pent 

In  narrow  space,  is  hero  ! 
This  volume's  method  and  intent 

How  luminous  and  clear ' 


260  ENIGMA. 

It  leaves  no  reader  at  a  loss 

Or  pos'd,  whoever  reads  : 
No  commentator's  tedious  gloss, 

Nor  even  index  needs. 

Search  Bodley's  many  thousands  o'er  \ 
No  book  is  treasur'd  there, 

Nor  yet  in  Granta's  num'rous  store 
That  may  with  this  compare. 

No  !  Rival  none  in  either  host 

Of  this  was  ever  seen, 
Or,  that  contents  could  justly  boast, 

So  brilliant  and  so  keen. 


iENIGMA. 

Parvula  res,  et  acu  minor  est,  et  ineptior  usu 

Quotque  dies  annus,  tot  tibi  drachma  dabit. 
Sed  licet  exigui  pretii  minimique  valoris, 

Ecce,  quot  artificum  postulat  ilia  manus. 
Unius  in  primis  cura  est  conflare  metallum ; 

In  longa  alterius  decere  fila  labor. 
Tertius  in  partes  resecat,  quartusque  resectura 

Perpolit  ad  modulos  attenuatque  datos. 
Est  quinti  tornare  caput,  quod  sextus  adaptet ; 

Septimus  in  punctum  cudit  et  exacuit. 
His  tandem  auxiliis  ita  res  procedit,  ut  omnes 

Ad  numeros  ingens  perficiatur  opus. 
Qu8B  tanti  ingenii,  quas  tanti  est  summa  laboris : 

Si  mihi  respondes  CEdipe,  tota  tua  est. 


(261 


AN  ENIGMA. 

A  NEEDLE  small,  as  small  can  be, 
In  bulk  and  use,  surpasses  me, 

Nor  is  my  purchase  dear  ! 
For  little  and  almost  for  nought 
As  many  of  my  kind  are  bought 

As  days  are  in  the  year. 

Yet  though  but  little  use  we  boast, 
And  are  procur*d  at  little  cost, 

The  labour  is  not  light, 
Nor  few  artificers  it  asks. 
All  skilful  in  their  sev'ral  tasks. 

To  fashion  us  aright. 

One  fuses  metal  o'er  the  fire, 
A  second  draws  it  into  wire. 

The  shears  another  plies. 
Who  clips  in  lengths  the  brazen  thread 
For  him,  who,  chafing  every  thread, 

Gives  all  an  equal  size. 

A  fifth  prepares,  exact  and  round. 

The  knob,  with  which  it  must  bo  crowned 

His  follower  makes  it  fast : 
And  with  his  mallet  and  his  file 
To  shape  the  point,  employs  awhile 

The  seventh  and  the  last. 

Now  therefore,  CEdipus !  declare 
What  creature,  wonderful,  and  rare, 

A  process,  that  obtains 
Its  purpose  with  so  much  ado. 
At  last  produces  ! — tell  me  true, 

And  take  me  for  y^ur  pains ' 


(262) 


PASSERES  INDIGENT. 


COL.  TRIN.  CANT.  COMMENSALES. 

iNcoLA  qui  norit  sedes,  aut  viserit  hasce 

Newtoni  egregii  quas  celebravit  honos ; 
Viditque  et  meminit,  lagtus  fortasse  videndo, 

Quam  multa  ad  mensas  advolitarit  avis. 
lUe  nee  ignorat,  nidos  ut,  vere  ineunte, 

Tecta  per  et  forulos,  et  tabulata  struat. 
Ut  coraiii  cducat  teneros  ad  pabula  foetus, 

Et  pascat  micis,  quas  det  arnica  manus. 
Convivas  quoties  campansB  ad  prandia  pulsus 

Convocat,  haud  epulis  certior  hopes  adest. 
Continuo  jucunda  simul  vox  fertur  ad  aures, 

Vicinos  passer  quisque  relinquit  agros, 
Hospitium  ad  notum  properatur  ;  et  ordine  stantes 

Expectant  panis  fragmina  quisque  sua. 
Hos  tamen,  hos  omnes,  vix  uno  largior  asse 

Sumptus  per  totam  pasciL  alitque  diem. 
Hunc  unum,  hunc  modicum  (nee  quisquam  invidoiil 
assem) 

Indigense,  hospitii  jure,  nicrentur  avos 


(  263  ) 


SPARROWS  SELF-DOMESTICATED 

IN    TRINITY   COLLEGE,    CAMBRIDGE. 

None  ever  shar'd  the  social  feast, 
Or  as  an  inmate,  or  a  guest, 
Beneath  the  celebrated  dome, 
Where  once  Sir  Isaac  had  his  home, 
Who  saw  not  (and  with  some  delight 
Perhaps  he  view'd  the  novel  sight) 
How  num'rous,  at  the  tables  there, 
The  sparrows  beg  their  daily  fare 
For  there,  in  every  nook,  and  cell. 
Where  such  a  family  may  dwell, 
Sure  as  the  vernal  season  comes 
Their  nests  they  weave  in  hope  of  crumbs, 
Which  kindly  giv'n,  may  serve,  with  food 
Convenient,  their  unfeather'd  brood , 
And  oft  as  with  its  summons  clear. 
The  warning  bell  salutes  the  ear. 
Sagacious  list'ners  to  the  sound, 
They  flock  from  all  the  fields  around, 
To  reach  the  hospitable  hall. 
None  more  attentive  to  the  call. 
Arriv'd,  the  pensionary  band. 
Hopping  and  chirping,  close  at  hand, 
Solicit  what  they  soon  receive. 
The  sprinkled,  plenteous  donative. 
Thus  is  a  multitude,  though  large, 
Supported  at  a  trivial  charge  j 
A  wngle  doit  would  overpay 
Th'  expenditure  of  every  day. 
And  who  can  grudge  so  small  a  grace 
To  suooliants  natives  of  the  place  ? 


.-^ 


"1 


^'•.3^4*-^  (264) 

—  — ~  ^"'^ 

NULLI  TE  FACIAS  NIMIS  SODALEM 

Palpat  heram  felis,  gremic  recumbans  in  anili ; 

Quam  semel  atque  iteriim  Lydia  palpat  hcra. 
Luduni  lis  sequitur  ;  nam  totos  exserit  ungues, 

Et  longo  lacerat  vulnere  felis  anum. 
Continuo  exardens  gremio  muliercula  felem 

Nee  gravibus  multis  excutit  absque  minis : 
Quod  tamen  baud  sequum  est — si  vult  cum  fele  jtxjaru 

Felinum  debet  Lydia  ferre  jocum. 


FAMILIARITY  DANGEROUS. 

As  in  her  ancient  mistress'  lap, 

The  youthful  tabby  lay. 
They  gave  each  other  many  a  tap,     '^'^ 

Alike  disposed  to  play.  -i' 

But  strife  ensues.    Puss  waxes  warm, 

And  with  protruded  claws  •   '  ^ 

Ploughs  all  the  length  of  Lydia's  amiv 
Mere  wantonness  the  cause.        '^^* 

At  once,  resentful  of  the  deed, 
Slhe  shakes  her  to  the  ground 

With  many  a  threat,  that  she  shall  blotsti 
With  still  a  deeper  wound. 

But,  Lydia,  bid  thy  fury  rest,  ' 

It  was  a  venial  stroke  :  '^-^^ 

For  she  that  will  with  kittens  jest, 
Should  bear  a  kitten's  joke. 


,-J 


AD  RUBECULAM  INVITATIO. 

HospES  avis,  conviva  domo  gratissima  cuivis, 

Quam  bruma  humanam  quaerere  cogit  opem 
Hue  O  !  hyberni  fugias  nt  frigora  coeli, 

Confuge,  et  incolumis  sub  lare  vive  meo  ! 
Unde  tuam  esuriem  releves,  alimenta  fenestras 

Apponam,  quoties  itque  reditque  dies 
Usu  etenim  edidici,  quod  grato  alimenta  rependes 

Cantu,  qu8B  dederit  cunque  benigna  manus. 
Vere  novo  tepidee  spirant  cum  moUiter  aurae, 

Et  novus  in  quavis  arbore  vernat  honos, 
Pro  libitu  ad  lucos  redeas,  sylvasque  revisas, 

Laeta  quibus  resonat  Musica  parque  tuee  ! 
Sin  iterum,  sin  forte  iterum,  inclementia  brumas 

Ad  mea  dilectam  tecta  reducet  avem, 
Esto,  redux,  grato  memor  esto  rependere  cantu 

Pabula,  quae  dederit  cunque  benigna  manus ' 
Vis  bine  harmoniae,  numerorum  hinc  sacra  potestas 

Conspicitur,  nusquam  conspicienda  magis, 
Vincula  quod  stabilis  firmissima  nectit  amoris, 

Vincula  vix  longa  dissaocinda  die. 
Captat,  et  incantat  blando  oblectamine  Musa 

Humanum  pariter  pennigerumque  genus  ', 
Nob  homines  et  aves  quotcunque  animantia  vivunt 

Nos  soli  harmoniaB  gens  studlosa  sumus 
Vol.  III.  _    S3 


(266) 


INVITATION  TO  THE  REDBREAST. 


Sweet  bird,  whom  the  winter  constrains- 

And  seldom  another  it  can — 
To  seek  a  retreat,  while  he  reigns, 

In  the  well-shelter'd  dwellings  of  man, 
Who  never  can  seem  to  intrude, 

Tho'  in  all  places  equally  free, 
Come,  oft  as  the  season  is  rude. 

Thou  art  sure  to  be  welcome  to  me. 

At  sight  of  the  first  feeble  ray, 

That  pierces  the  clouds  of  the  east, 
To  inveigle  thee  every  day 

My  windows  shall  show  thee  a  feast. 
For,  taught  by  experience,  I  know 

Thee  mindful  of  benefit  long ; 
And  that  thankful  for  all  1  bestow. 

Thou  wilt  pay  me  with  many  a  song. 

Then,  soon  as  the  swell  of  the  buds 

BespeaJis  the  renewal  of  spring. 
Fly  hence,  if  thou  wilt,  to  the  woods, 

Or  where  it  shall  please  thee  to  sing : 
And  shouldst  thou,  compell'd  by  a  frost, 

Come  again  to  my  window  or  door, 
Doubt  not  an  affectionate  host. 

Only  pay  as  thou  pay*dst  me  before. 

Thus  musick  must  needs  be  confest 
To  flow  from  a  fountain  above  ; 

Else  how  should  it  work  in  the  bien.^l. 
Unchangeable  friendship  and  io\o 


STRADA'S  NIGHTINGALE  267 

And  who  on  the  globe  can  be  found, 

Save  your  generation  and  oursj 
That  can  be  delighted  by  sound, 

Or  boasts  any  musical  pow'rs  ? 


STRAD^  PHILOMELA. 

Pastokem  audivit  calamis  Philomela  canentem, 

Et  voluit  tenues  ipsa  referre  modos ; 
Ipsa  retcntavit  numeros,  didicitque  retentans 

Argutum  fida  reddere  voce  melos. 
Pastor  inassuetus  rivalem  fcrre,  misellam 

Grandius  ad  carmen  provocat,  urget  avem 
Tuque  etiam  m  modules  surgis  Philomela ;  sed  impar 

Viribifl,  heu,  impar,  exanimisque  cadis, 
Durum  certamen  !  tiistis  victoria !  cantum 

Maluerit  pastor  non  superasse  tuum. 


STRADA'S  NIGHTINGALE. 

The  Shepherd  touch'd  his  reed  ;  sweet  Philomel 
Essay 'd,  and  oft  assayed  to  catch  the  strain, 

And  treasuring,  as  on  her  ear  they  fell. 

The  numbers,  echo'd  note  for  note  again. 

The  peevish  youth,  who  ne'er  had  found  before 
A  rival  of  his  skill,  indignant  heard, 

And  soon,  (for  various  was  his  tuneful  store,^ 
In  loftier  tones  defied  the  simple  bird. 


268  ANUS  StECULARIS. 

She  dar'd  the  task,  and  rising,  as  he  rose, 

With  all  the  force,  that  passion  gives,  inspir  d, 
Return'd  the  sounds  awhile,  but  in  the  close, 

Exhausted  fell,  and  at  his  feet  expir'd. 

Thus  strength,  not  skill  prevaiPd.     O  fatal  strife, 
By  thee,  poor  songstress,  playfully  begun  ; 

And,  O  sad  victory,  which  cost  thy  life, 

And  he  may  wish  that  he  had  never  won ' 


ANUS  SiECULARIS, 

QucB  justam  centum  annorum  cBtatemj  ipso  die  natale^ 
explevitj  et  clausit  anno  1728. 

SiNGULARis  prodigium  O  senectse, 
Et  novum  exemplum  diuturnitatis, 
Cujus  annorum  series  in  amplum 

desinit  orbem ! 

Vulgus  infelix  hominum,  dies  en  ! 
Compute  quam  dispare  computamus  ! 
Quam  tua  a  sumraa  procul  est  remota 

summula  nostra ! 

Pabulum  nos  luxuriesque  lethi, 
Nos  simul  nati,  incipimus  perire, 
Nos,  statim  a  cunis  cita  destinamur 

prseda  sepulichro ' 

Occulit  mors  insidias,  ubi  vix 
Vix  opinari  est,  rapidseve  febris 
Vim  repentinam,  aut  male  pertinacis 

scmina  morbi. 


"''"Vi 


ANUS  S^CULARIS.    •  209 

Sin  brevcm  possit  superare  vita 
Terminum,  qujcquid  superest  vacivum, 
Illud  ignavis  superest  et  imbe- 

ciilibus  annis. 

Detrahunt  multum,  minuimtque  sorti 
Morbidi  questus  gemitusque  anheli ; 
Ad  parem  crescunt  numerum  diesque 

atque  dolores 

Si  quis  hflBC  vitet  (quotus  ille  quisque  est !) 
Et  gradu  pergendo  laborioso 
Ad  tuum,  fortasse  tuum,  moretur 

reptilis  sevum 

At  videt,  moestum  tibi  scepe  visum,  in- 
jurias,  vim,  fuifta,  dolos,  et  inso- 
lentiam,  quo  semper  eunt,  eodem  // 

ire  tenore 

Nil  inest  rebus  novitatis  ,  et  quod 
Uspiam  est  nugarum  et  ineptiarum, 
Unius  volvi  videt,  et  revolvi 

■  circulus  oevi. 

Inlegram  SBtatem  tibi  gratulamur ; 
Et  dari  nobis  satis  eestimamus; 
Si  tuam,  saltern  vacuam  querelis 

tlimidiemoff 
2«» 


(  270  ) 


ODE 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  LADT, 

Who  lived  one  hundred  Years,  and  died  on  her 
Birth-day,  1728. 

Ancient  dame,  how  wide  and  vast 

To  a  race  like  ours  appears, 
Rounded  to  an  orb  at  last, 

All  thy  multitude  of  years ! 

We  the  herd  of  human  kind, 

Frailer  and  of  feebler  pow'rs  ;* 

We,  to  narrow  bounds  confin'd, 
Soon  exhaust  the  sum  of  ours. 

Death's  delicious  banquet — ^we 

Perish  even  from  the  womb, 
Swifter  than  a  shadow  flee, 

Nourish'd  but  to  feed  the  tomb. 

Seeds  of  merciless  disease 

Lurk  in  all  that  we  enjoy  ; 
Some,  that  waste  us  by  degrees, 

Some,  that  suddenly  destroy. 

And  if  life  o'erleap  the  bourn 

Common  to  the  sons  of  men : 
What  remains,  but  that  we  mourn, 

Dream,  and  doat,  and  drivel  then  ? 

Fast  as  moons  can  wax  and  wane, 

Sorrow  comes  ;  and  while  we  groan, 

Pant  with  anguish  and  complain. 

Half  our  years  are  fled  and  gone. 


VICTORIA  FORENSIS.  271 

If  a  few,  (to  few  'tis  giv'n,) 

Ling 'ring  on  this  earthly  sta^i^ 
Creep,  and  halt  with  steps  uneven, 

To  the  period  of  an  age  :  >'T 


Afr^   A. 


Wherefore  live  they,  but  to  see 

Cunning,  arrogance,  and  force, 

Sights  lamented  much  by  thee, 

Holding  their  accustom'd  course  ^ 

Oft  was  seen  in  ages  past. 

All  that  we  with  wonder  view ; 

Often  shall  be  to  the  last;        ' 
Earth  produces  nothing  new. 

Thee  we  gratulate  ;  content, 

Should  propitious  Heaven  design 

Life  for  us,  as  calmly  spent. 

Though  but  half  the  length  of  thine. 


VICTORIA  FORENSIS    . ''''",/*'"'' 

Caio  cum  Titio.iis  et  vexatio  longa 

Sunt  de  vicini  proprietate  soli. 
Protinus  ingentes  animos  In  jurgia  sumunt, 

Utraque  vincendi  pars  studiosa  nimis. 
Lis  tumet  in  schedulas,  et  jam  verbosior,  et  j?un 

Nee  verbum  quodvis  asse  minoris  emur^,.  ^  funml 
Prffitereunt  menses,  et  terminus  alter  et  alter!^,.  'j^^ 

Quigvque  novos  sumptus,  alter  et  alter,  habeiit.^^f';| 
llle  querens,  hie  respondens  pendente  vocatur 

Lite ;  sed  ad  finem  litis  uterque  querens. 


(  272  ) 
THE  CAUSE  WON. 

Two  neighbours  furiously  dispute  ; 
A  field — the  subject  of  the  suit. 
Trivial  the  spot,  yet  such  the  rage 
"With  which  the  combatants  engage, 
*Twere  hard  to  tell,  who  covets  most 

The  prize at  whatsoever  cost. 

The  pleadings  swell.     Words  still  suffice 
No  single  word  but  has  its  price. 
No  term  but  yields  some  fair  pretence 
For  novel  and  increas'd  expense. 

Defendant  thus  becomes  a  name, 
Which  he  that  bore  it  may  disclaim  ', 
Since  both,  in  one  description  blended, 
Are  plaintiffs — when  the  suit  is  ended. 


'.yj-iO 


BOMBYX. 

Fine  sub  Aprilis  Bombyx  excluditur  ove 

Reptilis  exiguo  corpore  vermiculus, 
Frondibus  hie  mori,  volvox  dum  fiat  adultus, 

Gnaviter  incumbens,  dum  satietur,  edit. 
Crescendo  ad  justum  cum  jam  maturuit  aBVunoL,  ^. 

Incipit  artifici  stamine  textor  opus  ;         '  ^''f'  **^ 
Filaque  condensans  filis,  orbem  implicat  orbi, 

Et  sensim  in  gyris  conditus  ipse  latet. 
Jnque  cadi  teretem  formam  se  colligit,  undo  ^ 

Egrediens  pennas  papilionis  habet ;  "^  ' 

Fitque  parens  tandem,  foetumque  reponit  in  ovis  ; 

Hoc  demum  extremo  munere  functus  obit.         *^ 
Quotquot  in  hac  nostra  spirant  animalia  terra 

NuUi  est  vel  brevier  vita,  Vel  utilior. 


(273) 


THE  SILK  WORM. 

The  beams  of  April,  ere  it  goes, 
A  worm,  scarce  visible,  disclose ; 
All  winter  long  content  to  dwell 
The  tenant  of  his  native  shell. 
The  same  proUfick  season  gives 
The  sustenance  by  which  he  lives. 
The  mulb'rry  leaf,  a  simple  store, 
That  serves  him — till  he  needs  no  more  • 
For,  his  dimensions  once  complete, 
Thenceforth  none  ever  sees  him  eat ; 
Though,  till  his  growing  time  be  past, 
Scarce  ever  is  he  seen  to  fast ; 
That  hour  arriv'd,  his  work  begins. 
He  spins  and  weaves,  and  weaves  and  spins , 
Till  circle  upon  circle  wound 
Careless  around  him  and  around. 
Conceals  him  wdth  a  veil,  though  slight, 
Impervious  to  the  keenest  sight. 
Thus  self-enclos'd,  as  in  a  cask, 
At  length  he  finishes  his  task : 
And,  though  a  worm,  when  he  was  lost, 
Or  caterpillar  at  the  most. 
When  next  we  see  him,  wings  he  wears, 
And  in  papilio-pomp  appears ; 
Becomes  oviparous ;  supplies 
With  future  worms  and  future  flies, 
The  next  ensumg  year ; — and  dies !        \ 
Well  were  it  for  the  world,  if  all,  | 

Who  creep  about  this  earthly  ball,  } 
Though  shorter-liv'd  than  most  he  bo,  , 
Were  useful  in  their  kind  as  he. 


(274) 


INNOCENS  PR^DATRIX. 

Sedula  per  campos  nuUo  defessa  labore, 

In  cella  ut  stipet  meila,  vagatur  apis, 
Purpureum  vix  florem  opifex  praetervolat  unum, 

Innumeras  inter  quas  alit  hortus  opes ; 
Herbula  gramineis  vix  una  innascitur  agris, 

Thesauri  unde  aliquid  non  studiosa  legit. 
A  flore  ad  florem  transit,  mollique  volando 

Delibat  tactu  suave  quod  intus  habent. 
Omnia  delibat,  parce  sed  et  omnia,  furti, 

Ut  ne  vel  minimum  videris  indicium : 
Omnia  degustat  tam  parce,  ut  gratia  nulla 

Floribus,  ut  nullus  diminuatur  odor. 
Non  ita  prsBdantur  modice  bruchique  et  erucae  ; 

Non  ista  hortorum  maxima  pestis,  aves ; 
Non  ita  raptores  corvi,  quorum  improba  rostm 

Despoliant  agros,  efibdiuntque  sata. 
Succos  immiscens  succis,  ita  suaviter  oranes 

Temperat,  ut  dederit  chymia  nulla  pares. 
Vix  furtum  est  illud,  dicive  injuria  debet, 

Quod  cera,  et  multo  melle  rependit  apis. 


INNOCENT  THIEF. 

Not  a  flower  can  be  found  in  the  fields, 
Or  the  spot  that  we  till  for  our  pleasure 

From  the  largest  to  least,  but  it  yields 
To  the  bee,  never  wearied,  a  treasure 


THE  INNOCENT  THIEF.  275 

Scarce  any  she  quits  unexplor'd, 

With  a  diligence  truly  exact : 
Yet,  steal  what  she  may  for  her  hoard, 

Leaves  evidence  none  of  the  fact. 

Her  lucrative  task  she  pursues, 

And  pilfers  with  so  much  address, 
That  none  of  their  odour  they  lose, 

Nor  charm  by  their  beauty  the  less. 

Not  thus  inoffensively  preys 

The  canker-worm,  indwelling  foe  ' 
His  voracity  not  thus  allays 

The  sparrow,  the  finch,  or  the  crow. 

The  worm,  more  expensively  fed. 

The  pride  of  the  garden  devours ; 
And  birds  pick  the  seed  from  the  bed, 

Still  less  to  be  spar'd  than  the  flowers 

But  she  with  such  delicate  skill 

Her  pillage  so  fits  for  her  use. 
That  the  chymist  in  vain  with  his  still 

Would  labour  the  like  to  produce. 

Then  grudge  not  her  temperate  meals, 

Nor  a  benefit  blame  as  a  theft ; 
Since,  stole  she  not  all  that  she  steals, 

Neither  honey  nor  wax  would  be  left. 


(276  ) 


DENNERI  ANUS.*         >^ 

DocTCJM  anus  artificem  juste  celebrata  fatetur. 

Denneri  pinxit  quam  studiosa  manus. 
Nee  stupor  est  oculis,  fronti  nee  ruga  severa, 

Flaccida  nee  sulcis  pendet  utrinque  gena. 
Nil  habct  illepidum,  morosum,  aut  triste  tabella 

Argentum  capitis  prseter,  anile  nihil, 
Apparent  nivei  vitisE)  sub  margine  cani, 

Fila  colorati  qualia  Seres  habent ; 
Lanugo  mentum,  sed  quae  tenuissima,  vcstit, 

Mollisque,  et  qualis  Persica  mala  tegit. 
Nulla  vel  e  minimis  fugiunt  spiracula  visum  ; 

At  neque  lineolis  de  cutis  uUa  latet. 
Spectatum  veniunt,  novitas  quos  allicit  usquam, 

Quosque  vel  ingenii  fama,  vel  artis  amor. 
Adveniunt  juvenes ;  et  anus  si  possit  araari, 

Dennere,  agnoscunt  hoc  meruisse  tuam. 
Adveniunt  hilares  nymphae  ;  similemque  senectam 

Tarn  pulchram  et  placidam  dent  sibi  fata,  rogant 
MatronsB  adveniunt,  vetulseque  fatentur  in  ore 

Quod  nihil  horrendum,  ridiculumve  vident. 
Quantus  hones  arti,  per  quam  placet  ipsa  seaectus 

Quae  facit,  ut  nymphis  invideatur  anus  ! 
Pictori  cedit  qu8B  gloria,  cum  nee  Apelli 

Majorem  famam  det  Cytherea  suo  ! 

*  Diu  publico  fuit  spectaculo  egregia  liaec  tabula  in  area 
Palatina  exteriori,  juxta  fanum  Westmonastre  riense. 


(277) 


DENNER'S  OLD  WOMAN, 

In  this  mimick  form  of  a  matron' in  years, 
How  plainly  the  pencil  of  Denner  appears 
The  matron  herself,  in  whose  old  age  we  see 
Not  a  trace  of  decline,  what  a  wonder  is  she  ! 
No  dimness  of  eye,  and  no  cheek  hanging  low. 
No  wrinkle,  or  deep  furrow'd  frown  on  the  brow ! 
Her  forehead  indeed  is  here  circled  around  -fXiO 

With  locks  like   the   ribbon,   with  which  they   are 

bound ; 
While  glossy  and  smooth,  and  as  soft  as  the  skin 
Of  a  delicate  peach,  is  the  down  of  her  chin  ;         • ''  • 
But  nothing  unpleasant,  or  sad,  or  severe. 
Or  that  indicates  life  in  its  winter — is  here. 
Yet  all  is  express'd,  with  fidelity  due, 
Nor  a  pimple,  nor  freckle,  conceal'd  from  the  view. 

Many  fond  of  new  sights,  or  who  cherish  a  taste 
For  the  labours  of  art,  to  the  spectacle  haste  ; 
The  youths  all  agree,  that  could  old  age  inspire 
The  passion  of  love,  hers  would  kindle  the  fire. 
And  the  matrons,  with  pleasure,  confess  that  they  see 
Ridiculous  nothing  or  hideous  in  thee. 
The  nymphs  for  themselves  scarcely  hope  a  decline 
O  wonderful  woman  !  as  placid  as  thine. 

Strange  magick  of  art !  which  the  youth  can  engage 
To  peruse,  half  enamour 'd,  the  features  of  age  ; 
And  force  from  the  virgin  a  sigli  of  despair. 
That  she  when  as  old,  shall  be  equally  fair ! 
How  great  is  the  glory,  that  Denner  lias  gain'd, 
Since  Apelles  not  more  for  his  Venus  obtain'd  ' 

Vol.  hi.  24 


(  278  ) 


LACRYMiE  PICTORIS. 

Infantem  audivit  puerum,  sua  gaudia,  Apelles 

Intempestivo  fato  obiisse  diem.  ) 

Ille,  licet  tristi  perculsus  imagine  mortis, 

Proferri  in  medium  corpus  inane  jubet, 
Et  calaraum,  et  succos  poscens,  "  Hos  accipe  luctus, 

"  Moerorem  hunc,"  dixit,  "  nate,  parentis  habe  '" 
Dixit ;  et,  ut  clausit,  clausos  depinxit  ocelios  j 

Officio  pariter  fidus  utri^ue  pater  : 
Frontemque  et  crines,  nee  adliuc  pallentia  formans 

Oscula,  adumbravit  lugubre  pictor  opus 
Perge  parens,  moerendo  tuos  expendere  luctus ; 

Nondum  opus  absolvit  triste  suprema  manus. 
Vidit  adhuc  molles  genitor  super  oscula  risus ; 

Vidit  adhuc  veneres  irrubuisse  genis, 
Et  teneras  raptim  veneres,  blandosque  lepores, 

Et  tacitos  risus  transtulit  in  tabulam. 
Pingendo  desiste  tuum  signare  dolorem  ; 

Filioli  longum  vivet  imago  tui ; 
Vivet,  et  eeterna  vives  tu  laude,  nee  arte 

Vincendus  pictor,  nee  pietate  pater. 


TEARS  OF  A  PAINTER. 

Apelles,  hearing  that  his  boy 
Had  just  expir'd — his  only  joy  ! 
Although  the  sight  with  anguish  tore  him, 
Bade  place  his  dear  remains  before  him, 


THE  TEARS  OF  A  PAINTER.  279 

He  seiz'd  his  brush,  his  colours  spread  ; 
And — "  Oh  !  my  child,  accept," — he  said, 
"  ('Tis  all  that  I  can  now  bestow,) 
"  This  t:lbute  of  a  father's  wo  !" 
Then,  faithful  to  the  two-fold  part, 
Both  of  his  feelings  and  his  art, 
He  clos'd  his  eyes,  with  tender  care, 
And  form'd  at  once  a  fellow  pair. 
His  brow,  with  amber  locks  beset, 
And  lips  he  drew,  not  livid  yet , 
And  shaded  all,  that  he  had  done, 
To  a  just  image  of  his  son. 

Thu,  far  is  well.    But  view  again, 
The  cf  use  of  thy  paternal  pain ! 
Thy  irelancholy  task  fulfil ! 
It  needs  the  last,  last  touches  still. 
Again  his  pencil's  pow'rs  he  tries, 
For  on  his  lips  a  smile  he  spies  : 
And  still  his  cheek,  unfaded,  shows 
The  deepest  damask  of  the  rose. 
Then,  heedless  to  the  finish 'd  whole, 
With  fondest  eagerness  he  stole, 
Till  scarce  himself  distinctly  knew 
The  cherub  copied  from  the  true. 

Now,  painter,  cease  !  Thy  task  is  doii% 
Long  lives  this  image  of  thy  son ; 
Nor  short  liv'd  shall  the  glory  proYe, 
Or  of  thy  labour,  or  thy  love. 


(  280  > 
SPE  FINIS. 

At)  dextram,  ad  Igevam,  porro,  retro,  itque,  reditque, 

Deprensum  in  laqiieo  quern  labyrinthus  habet, 
Et  leg^it  et  relegit  gressus,  sese  explicet  unde^ 

Perplexum  q«aireiis  unde  revolvat  iter. 
Sta  modo,  respira  paulum,  simul  accipe  filum  ; 

Certius  et  melius  non  Ariadne  dabit. 
Sic  te,  SIC  solum  exepdies  errore ,  viarum 

Principium  invenies,  id  tibi  finis  erit. 

THE  MAZE. 

f»R()M  right  to  left,  and  to  and  fro, 
Caught  in  a  labyrinth  you  go, 
And  turn,  and  turn,  and  turn  again, 
To  solve  the  myst'ry,  but  in  vain  ; 
Stand  still,  and  breathe,  and  take  from  me 
A  clew,  that  soon  shall  s,et  you  free  ! 
Not  Ariadne,  if  you  meet  her,  '^ 

Herself  could  serve  you  with  a  better. 
You  enter'd  easily — find  where 
And  make,  with  ease,  your  exit  there  i 


NEMO  MISER  NISI  COMPARATUS 

"  Quis  fuit  infelix  adeo  !  quis  perditus  ©que  t" 

Conqueritur  moesto  carmine  tristis  amans. 
Non  novus  hie  questus,  rarove  auditus  ;  amantes 

Dese^rti  et  spreti  mille  queruntur  idem. 
Fatum  decantas  quod  tu  miserabile,  multus 

Doplorat,  multo  cum  Corydone,  Strephon, 
Si  tua  cum  reliquis  confertur  arnica  puellis, 

Non  ea  vel  sola  est  ferrea,  tuve  miser. 


.  281   ) 

NO  SORROW  PECULIAR  TO   THE 
SUFFERER. 

The  lover,  in  melodious  verses, 
His  singular  distress  rehearses. 
8till  closing  with  a  rueful  cry, 
*  Was  ever  such  a  wretch  as  I  ?" 
Yes  !  Thousands  have  endur'd  before 
All  thy  distress ;  some,  haply  more 
Unnumber'd  Corydons  complain. 
And  Strephons,  of  the  like  disdain  ; 
And  if  thy  Chloe  be  of  steel, 
Too  deaf  to  hear,  too  hard  to  feel ; 
Not  her  alone  that  censure  fits, 
Nor  thou  alone  hast  lost  thy  wits. 


LIMAX. 

Frondibus,  et  pomis,  herbisque  tenaciter  hsret 

Limax,  et  secum  portat  ubique  domnm. 
Tutus  in  hac  sese  occultat,  si  quando  periclum 

Imminet,  aut  subitss  decidit  imber  aquse. 
Comua  vel  leviter  tangas,  se  protinus  in  se 

CoUigit,  in  proprios  contrahiturque  lares. 
Secum  habitat  quacunque  habitat ;  sibi  tota  supellex , 

SoltB  quas  adamat,  quasque  requirit  opes. 
Secnm  potat,  edit,  dormit ;  sibi  in  sedibus  iisdem 

Conviva  et  comes  est,  hospes  et  hospitium. 
Limacem,  quacumque  siet,  quacumquo  moretur, 

Siquis  eum  qusrat,  dixeris  esse  domL 
24* 


(282) 


mi^  rpjjE  SNAIL. 

To  grass,  or  leaf,  or  fruit,  or  wall, 
The  Snail  sticks  close,  nor  fears  to  ildl, 
As  if  he  grew  there,  house  and  iall 

Together 

Within  that  house  secure  he  hides, 
When  danger  imminent  betides 
Of  storm,  or  other  harm  besides 

Of  weather. 

Give  but  his  horns  the  slightest  touch, 
His  self-collectiiig  power  is  such, 
He  shrinks  into  his  house,  with  much 

Displeasure. 

Where*er  he  dwells,  he  dwells  alone, 
Except  himself  has  chattels  none. 
Well  satisfied  to  bo  his  own 

Whole  treasure. 

Thus,  hermit-like,  his  life  he  leads 
Nor  partner  of  his  banquet  needs. 
And  if  he  meets  one,  only  feeds 

The  faster. 

Who  seeks  him  must  be  worse  than  blind, 
(He  and  his  house  are  so  combin'd,) 
If,  finding  it,  he  fails  to  find 

lis  master 


(283) 


EaUES  ACADEMICUS. 

Galcari  instruitur  juvenis ;  geminove  vel  uno, 

Haud  multum,  aut  ocreis  cujus,  et  unde,  refert ; 
Fors  fortasse  suo,  fortasse  aliunde,  flagello  ; 

Quantulacunque  sui,  pars  tamen  ipse  sui. 
Sic  rite  armatus,  quinis  (et  forte  minoris) 

Conductum  solidis  scandere  gestit  equum. 
Lsetus  et  impavidus  qua  fert  fortuna  (volantem 

Cernite)  quadrupedem  pungit  et  urget  iter  * 
Admisso  cursu,  per  rura,  per  oppida  fertur  : 

Adlatrant  catuli,  multaque  ridet  anus. 
Jamque  ferox  plagis  erecta  ad  verbera  dextra 

Calce  cruentata  lassat  utrumque  latus. 
Impete  sed  tanto  vixdum  confecerit  ille 

Millia  propositsB  sexve  novemve  vioa, 
Viribus  absumptis,  fessusque  labor e,  caballus 

Sternit  in  immundum  seque  equitemquo  latum 
Vectus  iter  peraget  curru  plaustrove  viator  ? 

Proh  pudor  et  facinus !  cogitur  ire  pedes. 
Si,  nee  inexpertum,  seniorem  junior  audis, 

Quse  sint  exiguse  commoda  disce  morse. 
Quam  tibi  prsecipio^  brevis  est,  sed  regula  certa ; 

Ocyus  ut  possis,  pergere  lentus  eas  ' 

THE  CANTAB. 

With  two  spurs  or'^he ;  and  no  grhtA  matter  which 
Boots  bought,  or  boots  borrow'd,  a  whip,  or  a  switch, 
Five  shillings  or  less  for  the  hire  of  his  beast, 
Paid  part  into  hand  ; — ^you  must  wait  for  the  rest. 
Thus  equipt,  Academicus  climbs  up  his  horse, 
And  out  they  both  sally  for  better  or  worse ; 
His  heart  void  of  fear,  and  as  light  as  a  feather, 
And  in  violent  haste  to  go  not  knowing  whitherj  -w^ 


284  THE  SALAD. 

Through  the  fields  and  the  towns,  (see  !)  he  scampers 

alone, 
And  is  look'd  at,  and  laugh'd  at  by  old  and  by  young, 
Till  at  length  overspent,  and  his  sides  smear'd  with 

blood, 
Down  tumbles  his  horse,  man  and  all,  in  the  mud. 
In  a  wagon  or  chaise,  shall  he  finish  his  route  ? 
Oh  !  scandalous  fate  !  he  must  do  it  on  foot. 

Young  gentlemen  hear !  I  am  older  than  you  ! 
The  advice  that  I  give  I  have  proved  to  be  true. 
Wherever  your  journey  may  be,  never  doubt  it, 
The  faster  you  ride,  you're  the  longer  about  it. 


THE  SALAD 

BY 

VIRGIL, 

IJune  8th,  1799.] 

The  winter-night  now  well-nigh  worn  away, 
The  wakeful  cock  proclaim'd  approaching  day, 
When  Simulus,  poor  tenant  of  a  farm 
Of  narrowest  limits,  heard  the  shrill  alarm, 
Yawn'd,  stretch'd  his  limbs,  and  anxious  to  provide 
Against  the  pangs  of  hunger  unsupplied, 
By  slow  degrees  his  tatter'd  bed  forsook, 
And  poking  in  the  dark,  explor'd  the  nook 
Where  embers  slept,  with  ashes  heap'd  around, 
And  with  burnt  fingers-ends  the  treasure  found. 

It  chanc'd  that  from  a  brand  beneath  his  nose, 
Sure  proof  of  latent  fire,  some  smoko  arose  } 


THE  SALAD  285 

When  trimming  witii  a  pin  th'  incrusted  tow, 
And  stooping  it  towards  the  coals  below,* 
He  toils,  with  cheeks  distended,  to  excite 
The  ling'ring  flame,  and  gains  at  length  a  light. 
With  prudent  heed  he  spreads  his  hand  before 
The  quiv'ring  lamn.  and  opes  his  gran'ry  door. 
Small  was  his  stock,  but  taking  for  the  day, 
A  measur'd  stint  of  twice  eight  pounds  away, 
With  these  his  mill  he  seeks.     A  shelf  at  hand, 
Fix'd  in  the  wall,  affords  his  lamp  a  stand : 
Then  baring  both  his  arms — a  sleeveless  coat 
He  girds,  the  rough  exuviae  of  a  goat : 
And  with  a  rubber,  for  that  use  design'd. 
Cleansing  his  mill  within — begins  to  grind ; 
Each  hand  has  its  employ;  lab'ring  amain. 
This  turns  the  winch,  while  that  supplies  the  grain. 
The  stone  revolving  rapidly,  now  glows 
And  the  bruis'd  corn  a  mealy  current  flows  ; 
While  he,  to  make  his  heavy  labour  light. 
Tasks  oft  his  left  hand  to  relieve  his  right ; 
And  chants  with  rudest  accent,  to  beguile 
His  ceaseless  toil,  as  rude  a  strain  the  while. 
And  now,  "  Dame  Cybale,  come  forth !"  he  cries, 
But  Cybale,  still  slumb'ring,  nought  replies. 

From  Afric  she,  the  swain's  sole  serving  maid, 
Whose  face  and  form  alike  her  birth  betray'd. 
With  woolly  locks,  lips  tumid,  sable  skin, 
Wide  bosom,  udders  flaccid,  belly  thin. 
Legs  slender,  broad  and  most  misshapen  feet, 
Chapp'd  into  chinks,  and  parch'd  with  solar  heat. 
Such,  summon'd  oft,  she  came  ;  at  his  command 
Fresh  fuel  heap'd,  the  sleeping  embers  fanned. 
And  made  in  haste  her  simmering  skillet  steam, 
Replenish'd  newly  from  the  neighbouring  stream. 

The  labours  of  the  mill  perform'd,  a  sieve 
The  mingled  flour  and  bran  must  next  receive, 


2Sa  THE  SALAD. 

Uliich  shaken  oft,  shoots  Ceres  throuslv  refin'd, 
And  better  dress'd,  her  husks  all  left  beViind. 
This  done,  at  once,  his  future  plain  repast, 
Unleaven'd,  on  a  shaven  board  he  cast, 
With  tepid  lymph,  first  largely  soak'd  it  all, 
Then  gather 'd  it  with  both  hands  to  a  ball. 
And  spreading  it  again  with  both  hands  wide, 
With  sprinkled  salt  the  stiffen'd  mass  supplied  ; 
At  length,  the  stubborn  substance,  duly  wrought, 
Takes  from  his  palms  impress'd  the  shape  it  ought, 
Becomes  an  orb — and  quarter'd  into  shares, 
The  faithful  mark  of  just  diyision  bears. 
Last,  on  his  hearth  it  finds  convenient  space, 
For  Cybale  before  had  swept  the  place. 
And  there,  with  tiles  and  embers  overspread, 
She  leaves  it — reeking  in  its  sultry  bed. 

Nor  Similus,  while  Vulcan  thus,  alone. 
His  part  perform'd,  proves  heedless  of  his  own. 
But  sedulous,  not  merely  to  subdue 
His  hunger,  but  to  please  his  palate  too. 
Prepares  more  savory  food.     His  chimney-side 
Could  boast  no  gammon,  salted  well,  and  dried, 
And  cook'd  behind  him ;  but  suflicient  store 
Of  bundled  anise,  and  a  cheese  it  bore  ; 
A  broad  round  cheese,  which,  thro'  its  centre  strung} 
With  a  tough  broom-twig,  in  the  corner  hung  ; 
The  prudent  hero  therefore  with  address. 
And  quick  despatch,  now  seeks  another  mess 

Close  to  his  cottage  lay  a  garden-ground, 
With  weeds  and  osiers  sparely  girt  around. 
Small  was  the  spot,  but  liberal  to  produce  : 
Nor  wanted  aught  that  serves  a  parent's  use, 
And  sometimes  ev'n  the  rich  would  borrow  thonce^ 
Although  its  tillage  was  his  sole  expense, 
For  oft,  as  from  his  toils  abroad  he  ceas'd, 
Home-bound  by  weather,  or  some  stated  feast, 


THE  SALAD.  28'^ 

His  debt  of  culture  here  he  duly  paid, 
And  only  left  the  plough  to  wield  the  spade. 
He  knew  to  give  each  plant  the  soil  it  needs. 
To  drill  the  ground,  and  cover  close  the  seeds, 
And  could  with  ease  compel  the  wanton  rill 
To  turn,  and  wind,  obedient  to  his  will. 
There  flourish'd  starwort,  and  the  branching  beet, 
The  sorrel  acid,  and  the  mallow  sweet. 
The  skirret  and  the  leek's  aspiring  kind, 
The  noxious  poppy — quencher  of  the  mind  ! 
Salubrious  sequel  of  a  sumptuous  board, 
The  lettuce,  and  the  long  huge  bellied  gourd  ; 
But  these  (for  none  his  appetite  controU'd 
With  stricter  sway)  the  thrifty  rustick  sold 
With  broom-twigs  neatly  bound,  each  kind  apart, 
He  bore  them  ever  to  the  publick  mart : 
Whence,  laden  still,  but  with  a  lighter  load, 
Of  cash  well-earn'd,  he  took  his  homeward  road, 
Expending  seldom,  ere  he  quitted  Rome, 
His  gains,  in  flesh-meat  for  a  feast  at  home. 
There,  at  no  cost,  on  onions,  rank  and  red, 
Or  the  curl'd  endive's  bitter  leaf,  he  fed  : 
On  scallions  slic'd,  or  with  a  sensual  gust. 
On  rockets — foul  provocatives  of  lust ! 
Nor  even  shunn'd  with  smarting  gums  to  press 
Nasturtium — purgent  face-distorting  mess  ! 

Some  such  regale  now  also  in  his  thought. 
With  hasty  steps  his  garden-ground  he  sought ; 
There  delving  with  his  hands,  he  first  displaced 
Four  plants  of  garlick,  large,  and  rooted  fast  j 
The  tender  tops  of  parsley  next  ho  culls. 
Then  the  old  rue-bush  shudders  as  he  pulls. 
And  coriander  last  to  these  succeeds. 
That  hangs  on  slightest  threads  her  trembling  seeds 

Plac'd  near  his  sprightly  fire  he  now  demands 
The  mortar  at  his  sable  servant's  hands ; 


288  THK  SALAD. 

When  stripping  all  his  garlick  first,  he  tore 

Th'  exteriour  coats,  and  cast  them  on  the  floor, 

Then  cast  away  with  like  contempt  the  skin, 

Flimsier  concealment  of  the  cloves  within. 

These  search'd,  and  perfect  found,  he  one  by  one, 

Rins'd,  and  di9pos'd  within  the  hollow  stone. 

Salt  added,  and  a  lump  of  salted  cheese, 

With  his  injected  herbs  he  cover'd  these, 

And  tucking  with  his  left  his  tunick  tight. 

And  seizing  fast  the  pestle  with  his  right. 

The  garlick  bruising  first,  he  soon  expressed, 

And  mix'd  the  various  juices  of  the  rest. 

He  grinds,  and  by  degrees  his  herbs  below, 

J^ost  in  each  other,  their  own  pow'rs  forego. 

And  with  the  cheese  in  compound,  to  the  sight 

Nor  wholly  green  appear,  nor  wholly  white. 

His  nostrils  oft  the  forceful  fume  resent, 

He  curs'd  full  oft  his  dinner  for  its  scent. 

Or  with  wry  faces,  wiping  as  he  spoke. 

The  trickling  tears,  cried  "  vengeance  on  the  smoke.  ^ 

The  work  proceeds  :  not  roughly  turns  he  now 

The  pestle,  but,  in  circles  smooth  and  slow. 

With  cautious  hand,  that  grudges  what  it  spills, 

Some  drops  of  olive -oil  he  next  instils. 

Then  vinegar  with  caution  scarcely  less. 

And  gathering  to  a  ball  the  medley  mess. 

Last,  with  two  fingers  frugally  applied, 

Bweeps  the  small  remnant  from  the  mortar's  side 

And  thus  complete  in  figure  and  in  kind, 

Obtains  at  length  the  Salad  he  design'd. 

And  now  black  Cybale  before  him  stands. 
The  cake  drawn  newly  glowing  in  her  hands, 
He  glad  receives  it,  chasing  far  away 
All  fears  of  famine  for  the  passing  day  ; 
His  legs  enclos'd  in  buskins,  and  his  iiead 
?n  its  tough  casque  of  leather,  forth  he  led 
And  yok'd  his  steers,  a  dull  obedient  pair. 
Then  drove  afield,  and  plung-'d  the  pointed  share 


(289  ) 

TRANSLATION'S  OF  GBJEiEK  VERSES. 

IBegun  Jlugustj  1799.] 

— ^©^>- 

— irj'.a  l:     FROM 

THE  GEEEK  OF  JULIANUS. 

A  Spartan,  his  companions  slain, 

Alone  from  battle  fled, 
His  mother  kindling  with  disdain 

That  she  had  borne  him,  struck  him  dead ; 

For  courage,  and  not  birth  alone, 
In  Sparta,  testifies  a  son  ! 


THE  SAME,  BY  PALAADAS, 

A  Spartan,  'scaping  from  the  fight, 
His  mother  met  him  in  his  flight, 
Upheld  a  faulchion  to  his  breajst, 
And  thus  the  fugitive  address'd  : 

"  Thou  canst  but  live  to  blot  with  shame 
Indelible  thy  mother's  name, 
While  ev'ry  breath,  that  thou  shalt  draw. 
Offends  against  thy  country's  law ; 
But,  if  thou  perish  by  this  hand. 
Myself  indeed  throughout  the  land. 
To  my  dishonour,  shall  be  known 
The  mother  still  of  such  a  son  ; 
But  Sparta  will  be  safe  and  free. 
And  that  shall  serve  to  comfort  me/* 
Vol.  Ill  25- 


(  290 


AN  EPITAPH.  '^^ 


Mt  name — my  country — what  are  they  to  thce'i 
What,  whether  base  or  proud,  my  pedigree  ' 
Perhaps  I  far  surpassed  all  other  men — 
Perhaps  I  fell  below  them  all — what  then  ' 
Suffice  it,  stranger  !  that  thou  seest  a  tomb — 
Thou  know'st  its  use — it  hides — ^no  matter  whom. 


ANOTHER. 

Take  to  thy  bosom,  gentle  earth,  a  swain 
With  much  hard  labour  in  thy  service  worn  ! 

He  set  the  vines,  that  clothe  yon  ample  plain. 
And  he  these  olives,  that  the  vjde  adorn 

He  fiird  with  grain  the  glebe  ;  the  rills  he  led 
Thro*  this  green  herbage,  and  those  fruitful  bow'rs ; 

Thou,  therefore,  earth  !  lie  lightly  on  his  head, 
His  hoary  head,  and  deck  his  grave  with  flow'rs. 


ANOTHER 

Paihter,  this  likeness  is  too  strong, 
And  we  shall  mourn  the  dead  too  long. 


(291) 


ANOTHER. 


At  threescore  winters'  end  I  died 
A  cheerless  being,  sole  and  sad  ; 

The  nuptial  knot  I  never  tied, 
And  wish  my  father  never  had. 


BY  CALLIMACHUS. 

At  morn  we  plac'd  on  his  funeral  bier. 
Young  Menalippus  ;  and  at  eventide, 

Unable  to  sustain  a  loss  so  dear, 
By  her  own  hand  his  blooming  sister  died. 

Thus  Aristippus  raourn'd  his  noble  race, 
Annihilated  by  a  double  blow, 

Nor  son  could  hope,  nor  daughter  more  t'  embrace, 
And  ail  Cyrene  sadden'd  at  his  wo. 


ON  MILTIADES. 

M I LTi ADES  '  thy  valour  best  'ImlJ 

(Although  in  every  region  known) 

Th'^  men  of  Persia  '^an  attest, 
Taught  by  thyself  at  Marathon. 


^  292  ) 


ON  AN  INFANT. 

Bewail  not  much,  my  parents  !  me  the  pre> 
Of  ruthless  Ades,  and  sepulchred  here 
An  infant,  in  my  fifth  scarce  finish'd  year. 
He  found  all  sportive,  innocent,  and  gay, 
Your  young  Callimachus  ;  and  if  I  knew^ 
Not  many  joys,  my  griefs  were  also  few. 


BY  HERACLIDES. 

In  Cnidus  born,  the  consort  I  became 
Of  Euphron.     Aretimias  was  my  name. 
His  bed  I  shar'd,  nor  prov'd  a  barren  bride, 
But  bore  two  children  at  a  birth,  and  died. 
One  child  I  leave  to  solace  and  uphold 
Euphron  hereafter,  when  infirm  and  old. 
And  one,  for  his  remembrance  sake,  I  boar 
To  Plnto*s  realm,  till  he  shall  join  me  there. 


ON  THE  REED. 

I  WAS  of  late  a  barren  plant, 
Useless;  insignificant, 
Nor  fig,  nor  grape,  nor  apple  bore, 
A  native  of  the  marshy  shore  ; 
But  gather'd  for  poetick  use. 
And  plung'd  into  a  sable  juice, 


TO  HEALTH.  293 

Of  which  my  modicum  1  sip, 
With  narrow  mouth  and  slender  lip, 
At  once,  although  by  nature  dumb, 
All  eloquent  I  have  become. 
And  speak  with  fluency  Tmtir*d, 
As  if  by  Phoebus*  self  inspir*d. 

vM 


TO  HEALTH. 

Eldest  bom  of  pow'rs  divine  ! 
Blest  Hygeia !  be  it  mine, 
To  enjoy  what  thou  canst  give, 
And  henceforth  with  thee  to  live. 
For  in  pow*r  if  pleasure  be, 
Wealth,  or  numerous  progeny,  , 

Or  in  amorous  embrace. 
Where  no  spy  infests  the  place  ; 
Or  in  aught  that  Heav'n  bestows 
To  alleviate  human  woes. 
When  the  weary  heart  despairs 
Of  a  respite  from  its  cares ; 
These  and  ev'ry  true  delight 
Flourish  only  in  thy  sight ; 
And  the  sister  Graces  Three 
Owe,  themselves,  their  youth  to  thee, 
Without  whom  we  may  possess 
Much,  but  neveif  happiness.  : -'^  ^^  a*? 

25*  I  AooloA*'^ 


ON  lA 

iA 

THE  ASTROLOGERSv     ^A 

Th*  Astrologers  did  all  alike  presage 
My  uncle*s  dying  in  extreme  old  age, 
One  only  disagreed.    But  he  was  wise, 
And  spoke  not,  till  he  heard  the  fun'ral  cries. 

HTJ^gJ_pT 
*.  (jul  ^  inod  Ta.f*T.T5T 

ON 

AN  OLD  WOMAN; 

Mtcilla  dyed  her  locks,  *tis  fiaidt  5 

But  *tis  a  foul  aspersion, 
She  buys  them  black  ;  they  therefore  need 

No  subsequent  immersion 


,90di 


„f!^''imttim: 


I  Far  happier  are  the  dead,  methinks,  than  they, 

I  Who  look  for  death,  and  fear  it  ev*ry  day. 


(295; 


ON  FLATTERERS. 

In  nature  can  be  found, 
Than  fViendship,  in  ostent  ^aftceti^^^i  'i^'  —  1^^*^ 
But  hoUow  and  unsound,        i^o  t)«  ^  «*«>*^ 
-"Jbr  luird  into  a  dangerous  dreea%'^^.  if-h^i^^^  ^'^^ 
.I'v      Wd  closo  inibld  a  foe,  MvM»n  buA 

Who  strikes,  when  most  secure  we  seem, 
Th'  inevitable  blow. 


ON  THE  SWALLOW- 

Att1€x  maid !  with  honey  fed^ 

Bear'st  thou  to  thy  callow  broOo 

Yonder  locust  from  the  mead, 

Destined  their  delicioira  food !  :  ^  w 

Ye  have  kindred  voices  clear, 

Ye  alike  unfold  the  wing, 
Migrate  hither,  sojourn  here, 

Both  attendant  on  the  spring  ! 

Ah  for  pity  drop  the  prize  ; 

Let  it  not,  with  truth,  be  saidy 
That  a  songster  gasps  and  dies,[ 

That  a  songster  may  be  fed. 

;  f:!rf.1  moi^i 

>  .1;  fefiw  iO 

irodW 


(  296  ) 
LATE  ACQUIRED  WEALTH. 

Poor  in  my  youth,  and  in  life's  later  scen^i  if;rfT 
Rich  to  no  end,  I  curse  my  natal  hour : 

Who  naught  enjoy'd,  while  young,  deny'd  the  means 
And  naught,  when  old^  enjoy'd,  deny'd  the  pow'r. 

■i^ivoiii  'liT 


ON 

\ 

A  TRUE  FRIEND. 

Hast  thou  a  friend  ?  Thou  hast  indeed  >    - 

A  rich  and  large  supply, 
Treasure  to  serve  your  ev'ry  need^  i^buol 

Well  manag'd,  till  you  die     tftasiCI 


i^vfiiloY 

''^^r^^^ 

3jiM 

iiJoU 

ow 

idA 

A  BATH,  BY  PLATO. 

^iiilT 

Did  Cytherea  to  the  skies 
From  this  pellucid  lymph  arise  ? 
Or  was  it  Cytherea's  touch. 
When  bathing  here,  that  made  it  such. 

(297) 


A  FOWLER,  BY  ISIODORUS. 

With  seeds  and  birdlime,  from  the  desert  aitV    ^ 
Eumelus  gather'd  free,  though  scanty,  fare. 
No  lordly  patron's  hand  he  deign'd  to  kiss. 
Nor  lux'ry  knew,  save  liberty,  nor  bliss. 
Thrice  thirty  years  he  liv'd,  and  to  his  heirs 
His  seeds  bequeath'd,  his  birdlime,  and  his  snares 


ON  NIOBE.  ,,:j 

Charon  !  receive  a  family  on  boards ^ 
Itself  sufficient  for  thy  crazy  yavr^>^ 

Apollo  and  Diana,  for  a  word 
By  me  too  proudly  spoken,  slew  us  all. 


ON  A  GOOD  MAN. 

Tbav'ller,  regret  not  me  ;  for  thou  shalt  find 

Just  cause  of  sorrow  none  in  my  decease, 
Who,  dying,  children's  children  left  behind. 

And  with  one  wife  liv'd  many  years  in  peace : 
Three  virtuous  youths  ospous'd  my  daughters  three 

And  oft  their  infants  in  my  bosom  lay, 
Nor  saw  I  one,  of  all  deriv'd  from  me, 

Touch'd  with  disease,  or  torn  by  death  away. 
Their  duteous  hands  my  fun'ral  rites  bestow 'd 

And  me,  by  blameless  manners  fitted  well 
To  seek  it,  sent  to  the  serene  abode, 

Where  shades  of  pious  men  for  ever  dwell.      :>  ^rj^^ 


(  298  ) 


ON  A  MISER. 


They  call  thee  rich — I  deem  thee  poor, 
Since,  if  thou  dar'st  not  use  thy  store, 
But  sav'st  it  only  for  thine  heirs, 
The  treasure  is  not  thine,  but  theirs. 


ANOTHER. 

A  MISER,  traversing  his  house, 
Espied,  unusual  there,  a  mouse, 
And  thus  his  uninvited  guest, 
Briskly  inquisitive  address'd : 
"  Tell  me,  ray  dear,  to  what  cause  is  it 
I  owe  this  unexpected  visit?" 
The  mouse  her  host  obliquely  oy*d, 
And  smiUng,  pleasantly  replied, 
«*  Fear  not,  good  fellow,  for  your  hoard ' 
I  come  to  lodge,  and  not  to  board." 


ANOTHER. 

Art  thou  some  individual  of  a  kind 
Long-liv*d  by  nature  as  the  rook  or  hind  ? 
Heap  treasure  then,  for  if  thy  need  be  such, 
Thou  hast  excuse,  and  scarce  canst  heap  too  much. 
But  man  thou  seem'st,  clear  therefore  from  thy  breast 
This  lust  of  treasure— folly  at  the  best ! 
For  why  shouldst  thou  go  wasted  to  the  tomb, 
To  fatten  with  thy  spoils  thou  know'st  not  whom  * 


it 


(  299  ) 


FEMALE  INCONSTANCY,.^ 

'in? 
Rich,  thou  hadst  many  lovers— poor  hast  none, 

So  surely  want  extinguishes,  the  flame  ; 
And  she  who  call'd  thee  once  her  pretty  one, 

And  her  Adonis,  now  mquires  thy  name. 

Where  wast  thou  born,  Sosicrates,  and  where 
In  what  strange  country  can  thy  parents  live, 

Who  seem'st,  by  thy  complamts,  not  yet  aware 
Tliat  want's  a  crime  no  woman  can  forgive  7 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy  songster,  pcrch'd  above, 
On  the  summit  of  the  grove. 
Whom  a  dew-drop  cheers  to  sing, 
With  the  freedom  of  a  king. 
From  thy  perch  survey  the  fields 
Where  prolifick  nature  yields 
Nought,  that,  willingly  as  she, 
Man  surrenders  not  to  thee. 
For  hostility  or  hate. 

None  thy  pleasures  can  create  vrfJ  U»  lo'i 

Thee  it  satisfies  to  sing  "" 

Sweetly  the  return  of  spring, 
Herald  of  the  genial  hours, 
Harming  neither  herbs  nor  flow'rs. 
Therefore  man  thy  voice  attends 
Gladly,  thou  and  he  are  friends ; 


■j-oT 


300  TRANSLATIONS  OF  GREEK  VERSES 

Nor  thy  never  ceasing  strains 

Phoebus  or  the  muse  disdains 

As  too  simple  or  too  long, 

For  themselves  inspire  the  song. 

Earth-born,  bloodless,  undecajing, 

Ever  singing,  sporting,  playing, 

What  has  nature  else  to  show  r 

Godlike  in  his  kind  as  thou  ? 


V  bnn  .mtsv^ma  ,  riT.xl  i/oxlj  ieuw  0T©t! V > 

Hermocratia  nam'd save  only  one 

Twice  fifteen  births  I  bore,  and  buried  none : 
For  neither  Phoebus  pierc'd  my  thriving  joys, 

Nor  Dian she  my  girls,  or  he  my  boys, 

But  Dian  rather,  when  my  daughters  lay 
In  parturition,  chas'd  their  pangs  away, 
And  all  my  sons,  by  Phoebus'  bounty  shar'd 
A  vig'rous  youth,  by  sickness  unimpairM. 
O  Niobe  !  far  less  prolifick  !  see 
Thy  boast  against  Latona  sham'd  by  me  * 


FROM  MENANDER. 

Fond  youth  !  who  dream'st,  that  hoarded  gold 

Is  needful,  not  alone  to  pay 
For  all  thy  various  items  sold, 

To  serve  the  wants  of  every  day ;  ^ 

Bread,  vinegar  and  oil,  and  meat, 
For  sav'ry  viands  season'd  high  ; 

But  somewhat  more  important  yet 

I  tell  thee  what  .t  cannot  buy. 


.-J 


TRANSLATIONS  OF  GREEK  VERSES.  301 

No  treasure,  hadst  thou  more  amass'd, 

Than  fame  to  Tantalus  assign'd, 
Would  save  t|iee  from  a  tomb  at  last, 

But  thou  must  leave  it  all  behind. 

1  ^ve  thee,  therefor^,  counsel  wise 

Confide  not  vainly  in  thy  store. 
However  large much  less  despise 

Others  comparatively  poor ; 

But  in  thy  more  exalted  8tj,te 

A  just  and  equal  temper  show, 
That  all  who  see  thee  rich  and  great 

May  deem  thee  worthy  to  be  so. 


PALLAS,  BATHING. 

FROM   A   ^YAIN   OE   CALLIJyiACHlQS. 

Nor  oils  of  balmy  scent  produce, 
Nor  mirror  for  Minerva's  use, 
Ye  nymphs  who  lave  her  ;  she,  array -d 
In  genuine  beauty  scorns  their  aid. 
Not  even  when  they  left  the  skies 
To  seek  on  Ida's  head  the  prize        ! C> 
From  Paris'  hand,  did  Juno  deign, 
Or  Pallas  in  the  crystal  plain 
Of  Simois'  stream  her  locks  to  trace. 
Or  in  the  mirror's  polish'd  face, 
Though  Venus  oft  with  anxious  caro 
Adjusted  twice  a  single  hair. 
Vol.  III.  26  u 

i 


(  302; 


TO  DEMOSTHENES. 

It  flatters  and  deceives  thy  view, 
This  mirror  of  ill  polish'd  ore ; 

For  were  it  just,  and  told  thee  true, 

Thou  wouldst  consult  it  never  more. 


SIMILAR  CHARACTER. 

You  give  your  cheeks  a  rosy  stain, 

With  washes  die  your  hair, 
But  paint  and  washes  both  are  vain 

To  give  a  youthful  air. 

Those  wrinkles  mock  your  daily  toil, 

No  labour  will  efface  *em, 
You  wear  a  mask  of  smoothest  oil, 

Yet  still  with  ease  we  trace  'em. 

An  art  so  fruitless  then  forsake,  fjqi.i^a  ^y 
Which  though  you  much  excel  in, 

You  never  can  contrive  to  make 
Old  Hecuba  young  Helen 


(  303  ) 


ON  AN  UGLY  FELLOW. 

Beware,  my  friend !  of  crystal  brook, 
Or  fountaiD.  lest  that  hideous  hook, 

Thy  nose,  thou  chance  to  see ; 
Narcissus'  fate  would  then  be  thine, 
And  self-detested  thou  wouldst  pine  , 

As  self-enamour'd  he. 


A  BATTERED  BEAUTY. 

Hair,  wax,  rouge,  honey,  teeth,  you  buy 

A  multifarious  store  ! 
A  mask  at  once  would  all  supply, 

Nor  would  it  cost  you  more. 


ON  A  THIEF. 

When  Aulus,  the  noctural  thief,  made  prize 
Of  Hermes,  swift-wing'd  envoy  of  the  skies, 
Hermes,  Arcadia's  king,  the  thief  divine. 
Who,  when  an  infant,  stole  Apollo's  kine, 
And  whom,  as  arbiter  and  overseer 
Of  our  gymnastick  sports,  we  planted  here ; 
"  Hermes,"  he  cried,  "  you  meet  no  new  disaster 
Ofttimes  the  pupil  goes  beyond  his  master." 


(M^ 


6N  PEDIGREE. 

FROM  EPl^^ARMUS. 

My  mother,  if  thoU  1-^6  rii4,  tiirt^lTb  Scire 
My  noble  birth  !  Sounding  at  every  breatlfi 
My  noble  birth  !  thou  kill'st  me.     Thither  fiy, 
As  to  their  only  refuge,  all  from  whom 
Nature  withholds  all  good  besides  ;  they  boast 
Their  noble  birth,  conduct  us  to  the  tombs 
Of  their  forefathers,  and  from  age  to  age 
Ascending,  trumpet  their  illustrious  race : 
But  whom  hast  thou  beheld,  or  canst  thou  name, 
Deriv'd  from  no  forefather  ?  Such  a  man 
Lives  not ;  for  how  could  such  be  born  at  all  ? 
And  if  it  chance,  that  native  of  a  land 
Far  distant,  or  in  infancy  deprived 
Of  all  his  kindred,  one,  who  cannot  tra6e 
His  origin,  exist,  why  deem  him  sprung  ^      . 
From  baser  ancestry  tht  n  theirs,  who  can  f 
My  mother  !  he,  whom  nature  at  his  birtb 
Endow'd  wH>i  virtuous  qualities,  although 
An  Jlthiop  ana  a  slave,  is  nobly  born 


ON  ENVY. 

^^iTY  says  thie  Thebah  bard, 
From  my  wishes  I  discard  ; 
Envy,  let  me  rather  be. 
Rather  far  a  theme  for  thee  • 
Pity  to  distress  is  shown, 
Envy  to  the  great  alone — 


.n7/ 


TRANSLATIONS  OF  GREEK  VERSES.  205 

So  the  Theban — But,to  shino 
Less  conspicuous  be  mine  ! 
I  prefer  the  golden  mean 
Pomp  and  penury  between  ; 
For  alarm  and  peril  wait 
Ever  on  the  loftiest  state, 
And  the  lowest,  to  the  end) 
Obloquy  and  scorn  attend* 


BY  PHILEMON. 

Oft  we  enhance  our  ills  by  discontent, 
And  give  them  bulk,  beyond  what  nature  meant 
A  parent,  brother,  friend  deceas'd,  to  cry — 
"  He's  dead  Indeed,  but  he  was  bom  to  die—" 
Such  temperate  grief  is  suited  to  the  size 
And  burthen  of  the  loss  ;  is  just  and  wise. 
But  to  exclaim,  "  Ah  !  wherefore  was  I  bom, 
"  Thus  to  be  left,  for  ever  thus  forlorn  ?" 
Who  thus  laments  his  loss  invites  distress, 
And  magnifies  a  wo  that  might  be  less, 
Through  dull  despondence  to  his  lot  resigu'di 
And  leaving  reason's  remedy  behind 

26» 


5/1-17  naaiiQic  a:'oTTA.i2iiAaT 

.8 
r 


ihh  oUijf  ^  '>d)  08 


BY  MOSCHUS. 

I  SLEPT,  when  Veniis  entered  :  to  mj-bed 
A  Cupid  in  her  beauteous  hand  she  led, 
A  bashful  seeming  boy,  and  thus  she  said ; 

"  Shepherd,  receive  my  little  one  !  I  bring 
An  untaught  love,  whom  thou  must  teach  to  sing." 
She  said,  and  left  him.  I  suspecting  nought, 
Many  a  sweet  strain  ray  subtle  pupil  taught. 
How  reed  to  reed  Pan  first  with  osier  bound, 
How  Pallas  form'd  the  pipe  of  softest  sound. 
How  Hermes  gave  the  lute,  and  how  the  choir  t  n  > 
Of  Phoebus  owe  to  Phoebus'  self  the  lyre.  ::  miA 

Such  were  my  themes ;  my  themes  nought  heeded  h4f 
But  ditties  sang  of  am'rous  sort  to  me,  nl  i 
The  pangs,  that  mortals  and  ininiortals  prove     ?  m    ,  ., 
From  Venus*  influence,  and  the  dart*  of  love,   jd  bnA 
Thus  was  the  teacher  by  the  pupil  taught ;  .  -^ 

His  lessons  I  retained,  and  mine  forgol. 


(  30-7  ) 


pits ..',  oni  i>»?niO 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  LATIN  OF  OWB.\% 


IN  IGNOrX^^^M  ARRdGXNi'llSlllNUM 

Captivum,  Line,  te  tenet  ignorantia  dupf.ex. 
Scis  nihil,  et  nescis  te  quoque  scire  nihi'.. 

ON  ONE  IGNORANT  AND  ARROGANT. 

Thou  mayest  of  double  ign'ranee  boa^t, 
Who  know'st  not,  that  thou  nothing  know'st. 

PRUDENS  SIMPLICITAS. 

Ut  nulli  nocuisse  veils,  imitare  columbam  : 
Serpentem,  ut  pdssit  nemo  TT^ere  tibi,  . 

PRUDENT  SIMPLICITY. 

That  thou  mayest  injure  no  man,  dove-like  be, 
And  serpent-like,  that  none  may  injure  thee  ! 

AD  AMICUJVi  PAUPEREM. 

Est  male  nunc  ?  Utinam  in  pejus  sors  omnia  vertat ; 
Succedunt  summis  optima  ssepe  malis. 

TO  A  FRIEND  IN  DISTRESa 

X  WISH  thy  lot,  now  bad,  still  worse,  my  friend  ; 
Foi  when  at  worst  they  say,  things  always  mend. 


(  308  ) 


Omn«a  me  dum  junior  essem,  scire  putabam : 
Quo  scio  plus,  hoc  me  nunc  scio  scire  minus 

When  little  more  than  boy  in  age, 
I  deem'd  myself  almost  a  sage  ; 
But  now  seem  worthier  to  be  styPd 
For  ignorance — almost  a  child^ . ,  . ,.    .  ^    , 


LEX  TALIONIS. 

Majorum  nunquam,  Aule,  legis  monumenta  tuorum 
Mirum  est,  posteritas  si  tua  scripta  iegat. 

RETALIATION. 

The  works  of  ancient  bards  divine^ 

Aulus,  thou  scorn*st  to  read  ; 
And  should  posterity  read  thine, 

It  would  be  strange  indeed  ' 

DE  ORTU  ET  OCCASU. 

Sole  oriente,  tui  reditus  a  morte  memento ! 
Sis  memor  occasus.  sole  cadente,  tui,!-  . 

niisy  ^iyStJNSEf  AND  SUNRISE. 

Contemplate,  when  the  sun  declines, 
Thy  death,  with  deep  reflection  ; 

And  when  again  he  rising  shines, 
Thy  day  of  resurrection  I 


(  309  ) 
TRANSLATIONS 

FROM 

THE  FABLES  OF  GAY. 


LEPUS  MULTIS  AMICUS 

Lusus  amicitia  est,  uninisi  dedita,  ceu  fit,  JH 

Simplice  ni  nexus  foedere,  lusus  amor. 

Incerto  genitore  puer,  non  saspe  paternae 
Tutamen  novit,  deliciasque  domus  : 

Quique  sibi  fidos  fore  multos  sperat  amicos, 
Miriun  est,  huic  misero  si  ferat  ullus  bpem. 

Comis  erat,  mitisque,  et  nolle  et  voile  paratos 

Cum  quovis,  Gaii  more  modoque,  Lepus. 
Ille,  quot  in  sylvis,  et  quot  spatiantur  in  agris 

Quadrupedes,  norat  conciliare  sibi ; 
£t  quisque  innocuo,  invitoque  lacessere  quenquam 

Labra  tenus  saltern  fidus  amicus  erat. 
Ortum  sub  liicis  dura  pressa  cubilia  linquit, 

Rorantes  herbas,  pabula  sueta,  petens, 
Venatorum  audit  clangores  pone  sequentnm, 

Fulmineuraque  sonum  territus  erro  fugit. 
Corda  pavor  pulsat,  sursum  sedet,  erigit  aures, 

Respicit,  et  sentit  jam  prope  adesse  necem. 
Utque  canes  fallat  late  circumvagus,  illuc, 

Undo  abiit,  mira  calliditate  redit ; 
Viribus  at  fractis  tandem  se  projicit  ultro 

In  media  miserum  semianimemque  via. 
\'ix  ibi  stratus,  equi  sonitum  pedis  audit,  et,  oh  spe 

Quara  la.ta  adventu  cor  agitatur  equi ! 
Dorsum  (inquit)  mihi,  chare,  tuuni  concede,  tuoque 

Auxilio  nares  failere,  vimque  canum. 


310         TRANSLATIONS  FROM  GAY. 
Me  raeus,  ut  nosti,  pes  prodit fidus  amicus 

Fert  quodcunque  lubens,  nee  grave  sentit,  onus. 
Belle  miselle  lepuscule,  (equus  respondet)  amara 

Omnia  quse  tibi  sunt,  sunt  et  amara  mihi. 
Verum  age — sume  animos — multi,  me  pone,  bonique 

Adveniunt,  quorum  sis  cito  salvus  ope. 
Proximus  armenti  dominus  bos  soUicitatus 

Auxilium  his  verbis  se  dare  posse  negat. 
Quando  quadrupedum,  quot  vivunt,  nullus  amicum 

Me  nescire  potest  usque  fuisse  tibi. 
Libertatc  aequus,  quam  cedit  amicus  amico, 

Utar,  et  absque  metu  ne  tibi  displiceam ; 
Hinc  me  mandat  amor.     Juxta  istum  messis  acervum 

Me  mea,  pras  cimctis  chara,  juvenca  manet ; 
Et  quis  non  ultro  qusecunquo  negotia  linquit, 

Pareat  ut  dominae,  cum  vocat  ipsa,  suae  ? 
Neu  me  crudelem  dicas — disced© — sed  hircus, 

Cujus  ope  effugias  integer,  hircus  adest.  [languent  * 
Febrem  (ait  hircus)  habes.      Heu,  sicca  ut  lumina 

Utque  caput,  collo  deficiente,  jacet ! 
Hirsutum  mihi  tergum  ;  et  forsan  laBserit  aegrum, 

Vellere  eris  melius  fultus,  ovisque  venit. 
Me  mihi  fecit  onus  natura,  ovis  inquit,  anhelans 

Sustineo  lanse  pondera  tanta  meae  ; 
Me  nee  velocem  nee  fortem  jacto,  solentque 

Nos  etiam  saevi  dilacerare  canes. 
Ultimus  accedit  vitulus,  vitulumque  precator 

Ut  periturum  alias  ocyus  eripiat. 
Remne  ego,  respondet  vitulus,  suscepero  tantaniy 

Non  depulsus  adhuc  ubere,  natus  heri  ? 
Te,  quem  maturi  canibiis  validique  relinquunty      * 

Incolumem  potero  reddere  parvus  ego  ?  ^ 

Praetcrca  toUens  quem  illi  aversantur,  amicis 

Forte  parum  videar  consuluisse  meis. 
Ignoscas  oro.     Fidissima  dissociantur 

Corda,  et  tale  tibi  sat  liquet  esse  meum. 
Eccc  autem  ad  calces  canis  est !  te  quanta  perempto 

Tristitia  est  nobis  inisruitura  ' — ^,,-Vale  I 


(  311  ) 


AVARUS  ET  PLUTUS. 

IcTA  fenestra  Euri  flatu  stridebat,  avarus 

Ex  somno  trepidus  surgit,  opumque  memor. 
Lata  silenter  numi  ponit  vestigia,  quemque    '* 

Respicit  ad  sonitum  respiciensque  tremit  j 
Angustissima  quajque  foramina  lampado  visit, 

Ad  vectes,  obices,  fertque  refertque  manum. 
Dein  reserat  crebris  junctam  compagibus  arcam 

Exultansque  omnes  conspicit  intus  opes. 
Sed  tandem  furiis  ultricibus  actus  ob  artes 

Queis  sua  res  tenuis  creverat  in  cumulum. 
Contortis  manibus  nunc  stat,  nunc  pectora  pulsans 

Aurum  oxecratur,  pernloiemque  vocat ; 
O  mihi,  ait,  misero  mens  quam  tranquilla  fuisset. 

Hoc  celasset  adbuc  si  modo  terra  malum ! 
Nunc  autem  virtus  ipsa  est  venalis ;  et  aurum 

Quid  contra  vitii  termina  sseva  valet  ? 
O  inimicum  aurum  !  O  homini  infestissima  pestis, 

Cui  datur  illecebras  vincere  posse  tuas  ? 
Aurum  homines  saasit  contenmere  quicquid  honestum 
est, 

Et  prsBter  nomen  nil  retinere  boni 
Aurum  cuncta  mali  per  terras  semina  sparsit ; 

Aurum  nocturnis  furibus  arma  dedit 
Bella  docet  fortes,  timidosque  ad  pessima  ducit. 

Foedifragas  artes,  multiplicesque  dolos. 
Nee  vitii  quicquam  est,  quod  non  inveneris  ortum 

Ex  malesuada  auri  sacrilegaque  fame 
Dixit  et  ingemuit ;  Plutusque  suum  sibi  numen 

Ante  oculos,  ira  fervidus,  ipse  stetit. 
Arcam  clausit  avarus,  et  ora  horrentia  rugis 

Ostendens ;  tremulum  sic  Deus  increpuit. 
Questibus  his  raucis  mihi  cur,  stulte,  opstrepis  aures  f 

lata  tui  siniilis  tristia  quijsque  canit. 


312         TRANSLATIONS  FROM  GAY. 

Commaculavi  egone  humanum  genus,  improbe  ?  Culpa 

Dum  rapis,  et  captas  omnia,  culpa  tua  est. 
Mone  execrandum  censes,  quia  tam  pretiosa 

Criminibus  fiunt  perniciosa  tuis  ? 
Virtutis  specie,  pulchro  ceu  pallio  amictus 

Quisque  catus  nebulo  sordida  facta  tegit. 
Atque  suis  manibus  commissa  potentia,  durum 

Et  dirum  subito  vergit  ad  imperium. 
Hinc,  nimium  dura  latro  aurum  detrudit  in  arcanii  -   ' 

Idem  aurum  latet  in  pectore  pestis  edax. 
Nutrit  avaritiam  et  fastum,  suspender*^  adunco 

Suadet  naso  inopes,  et  vitium  omne  docet. 
Auri  et  larga  probo  si  copia  contigit,  instar 

Roris  dilapsi  ex  setbere  cuncta  beat : 
Turn,  quasi  numen  inesset,  alit,  fovit,  educat  orbo«| 

Et  viduas  lacrymis  ora  rigare  vetat 
Quo  sua  crimina  jure  auro  derivet  avarus, 

Aurum  anim©  protium  qui  cupit  atque  capit  •* 
Lege  pari  gladium  incuset  sicarius  atrox 

Gesso  homine,  et  ferrum  judicet  esse  reum. 


PAPILIO  ET  LIMAX. 

Qui  Bubito  ex  imis  rerum  in  fastigis  surgit, 
Nativas  iordos,  quicquid  agatur,  olet. 


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